TEN AMERICAN GIRLS 
FROM HISTORY 



Books by 
KATE DICKINSON SWEETSER 

TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY. Illustrated, 
BOOK OF INDIAN BRAVES. Illustrated. 
BOYS AND GIRLS FROM ELIOT. Illustrated. 
BOYS AND GIRLS FROM THACKERAY. Illustrated. 
TEN BOYS FROM DICKENS. lUustratrated. 
TEN BOYS FROM HISTORY. Illusratsd. 
TEN GIRLS FROM DICKENS. Illustrated. 
TEN GIRLS FROM HISTORY. Illustrated. 
TEN GREAT ADVENTURERS. lUustraied. 

HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK 
[Established 1817] 




MOLLY PITCHER 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS 
FROM HISTORY 



BY 
KATE DICKINSON SWEETSER 

AUTHOR OF 

"TEN BOYS FROM HISTORY" 

"TEN BOYS FROM DICKENS" 

ETC. 



ILLUSTRATED BY 
GEORGE ALFRED WILLIAMS 




HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 






Ten American Girls from History 

Copyright, 1917, by Harper & Brothers 

Printed in the United States of America 

Published October, 1917 



NOV -5 1917 



1A477425 



TO 

EDITH BOLLING WILSON 

"the first lady of the land" 

A descendant of POCAHONTAS, THE INDIAN 

GIRL OF THE VIRGINIA FOREST WHO LINKS 

THE FLOWER OF EARLY AMERICA WITH 

THE "new freedom" OF TODAY, THIS 

BOOK IS CORDIALLY DEDICATED. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Foreword xi 

Pocahontas: The Indian Girl of the Virginia Forest . . i 
Dorothy Quincy: The Girl of Colonial Days Who Heard 

the First Gun Fired for Independence 36 

Molly Pitcher: The Brave Gunner of the Battle of 

Monmouth 71 

Elizabeth Van Lew: The Girl Who Risked All that Slavery 

Might be Abolished and the Union Preserved .... 86 
Ida Lewis: The Girl Who Kept Lime Rock Burning; a Heroic 

Life-saver 125 

Clara Barton: "The Angel of the Battlefields" .... 143 
Virginia Reed: Midnight Heroine of the Plains in Pioneer 

Days of America 174 

Louisa M. Alcott: Author of "Little Women" 207 

Clara Morris: The Girl Who Won Fame as an Actress . . 236 

Anna Dickinson: The Girl Orator 271 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Molly Pitcher Frontispiece ^ 

Pocahontas Saves Captain John Smith Facing p. 4 r 

Miss Van Lew Bringing Food to the Union Soldier in 

THE Secret Room " 108 '^ 

Ida Lewis " 128 ' 

Virginia Goes Forth to Find Her Exiled Father . . ** i94i--^ 



FOREWORD 

THE loyalty of Pocahontas, the patriotism of Molly 
Pitcher and Dorothy Quincy, the devoted service of 
Clara Barton, the heroism of Ida Lewis, the enthusiasm of 
Anna Dickinson, the fine work of Louisa Alcott — all challenge 
the emulation of American girls of to-day. Citizen-soldiers 
on a field of service as wide as the world, young America 
has at this hour of national crisis its chance to win recog- 
nition for fidelity, for bravery, and for loyal service, with 
victory for American ideals as its golden reward, in a world 
"made safe for democracy." 

My first aim in bringing the lives of these ten American 
girls from history to the attention of the girls of to-day 
has been to inspire them to like deeds of patriotism and 
courage. Second only to that purpose is a desire to make 
young Americans realize as they read these true stories of 
achievement along such widely varying lines of work, that 
history is more thrilling than fiction, and that if they will 
turn from these short sketches to the longer biographies 
from which the facts of these stories have been taken, they 
will find interesting and absorbing reading. 

May the book accomplish its twofold object, and so 
justify its publication at this time of the testing of all true 
Americans. 

Kate Dickinson Sweetser. 

August 1, 191 7. 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS 
FROM HISTORY 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS 
FROM HISTORY 



POCAHONTAS: THE INDIAN GIRL OF THE 
VIRGINIA FOREST 

SUNLIGHT glinting between huge forest trees, and blue 
skies over-arching the Indian village of Werewocomoco 
on the York River in Virginia, where Powhatan, the mighty 
"Werowance," or ruler over thirty tribes, was living. 

Through Orapakes and Pamunkey and other forest settle- 
ments a long line of fierce warriors were marching Indian 
file, on their way to Werewocomoco, leading a captive white 
man to Powhatan for inspection and for sentence. As 
the warriors passed into the Indian village, they encoun- 
tered crowds of dusky braves and tattooed squaws hurrying 
along the wood trails, and when they halted at the central 
clearing of the village, the crowd closed in around them to 
get a better view of the captive. At the same time there 
rose a wild clamor from the rear of the throng as a merry 
group of shrieking, shouting girls and boys darted forward, 
jostling their way through the crowd. 

Their leader was a slender, straight young girl with laugh- 
ing eyes such as are seldom seen among Indians, and hair 
as black as a crow's wing blown about her cheeks in wild 
disorder, while her manner was that of a happy hearty 

I 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

forest maiden. This was Matoaka, daughter of the Wero- 
wance Powhatan, and although he had many subjects as 
well as twenty sons and eleven daughters, not one was ruled 
so despotically as was he himself, by this slender girl with 
laughing eyes, for whom his pet name was Pocahontas, 
or in free translation, "little romp." 

Having established themselves in the front row of the 
crowd the girls and boys stood eagerly staring at the prisoner, 
for many of them had never seen a white man before, and 
as Pocahontas watched, she looked like a forest flower in 
her robe of soft deer-skin, with beaded moccasins on her 
shapely feet, coral bracelets and anklets vying with the color 
in her dark cheeks, while a white plume drooping over 
her disordered hair proclaimed her to be the daughter of a 
great chief. In her health and happiness she radiated a 
charm which made her easily the ruling spirit among her 
mates, and compelled the gaze of the captive, whose eyes, 
looking about for some friendly face among the savage 
throng, fastened on the eager little maiden with a feeling 
of relief, for her bright glance showed such interest in the 
prisoner and such sympathy with him as was to endear her 
to his race in later years. 

The long line of braves with their heads and shoulders 
gaily painted had wound their slow way through forest, 
field, and meadow to bring into the presence of the great 
"Werowance" a no less important captive than Captain 
John Smith, leader in the English Colony at Jamestown 
by reason of his quick wit and stout heart. The settlers 
having been threatened with a famine, the brave Captain 
had volunteered to go on an expedition among neighboring 
Indian villages in search of a supply of corn. The trip 
had been full of thrilling adventures for him, and had ended 
disastrously in his being taken prisoner by Opechan- 
canough, the brother of Powhatan. The news of Smith's 

2 



POCAHONTAS 

capture having been carried to the great Werowance, he 
commanded that the pale-faced Caiicarousey or Captain, 
be brought to him for sentence. And that was why the 
warriors marched into Werewocomoco, Opechancanough in 
the center, with the firearms taken from Captain Smith 
and his companions carried before him as trophies. The 
prisoner followed, gripped by three stalwart Indians, while 
six others acted as flank guards to prevent his escape, and 
as they passed into Werewocomoco they were greeted by 
yelling savages brandishing weapons and surging forward 
to get a better glimpse of the white captive. The pro- 
cession halted for a few minutes at the village clearing, then 
moved slowly on to Powhatan's "Chief Place of Council," 
a long arbor-like structure where the great Werowance was 
waiting to receive Captain Smith. 

The crowd of boys and girls followed in the wake of the 
warriors until the Council Hall was reached, when they all 
dropped back except their leader. Pushing her hair from 
her low brow, that she might see more clearly, and walking 
with the erectness of a Werowance's daughter, Pocahontas 
entered the hall and stood near her father where she could 
not only watch the white captive, who appealed strongly 
to her fancy, but could also note Powhatan's expression as 
he passed judgment on the prisoner. 

With inscrutable reserve and majestic dignity the great 
ruler bowed as the captive was led before his rustic throne, 
where he reclined in a gorgeous robe of raccoon-skins. On 
either side of the Council Hall sat rows of dusky men and 
women, with their heads and shoulders painted red, some 
of the women wearing garments trimmed with the white 
down from birds' breasts, while others wore long chains of 
white beads about their necks. 

It was a picturesque sight for English tyes, and fearful 
though he was of foul play, the Captain could not but ap- 

2 3 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

predate the brilliant mingling of gay colors and dark faces. 
As he stood before the Chief, there was a clapping of hands 
to call an Indian woman, the Queen of the Appamattock, 
who brought water to wash the captive's hands, while an- 
other brought a bunch of feathers to dry them on. "What 
next?" Captain Smith wondered as he watched further prep- 
arations being made, evidently for a feast, of which he was 
soon asked to partake. 

Under the circumstances his appetite was not keen, but 
he felt obhged to pretend to a relish that he did not feel, 
and while he was eating his eyes lighted up with pleasure as 
he saw by her father's side — though he did not know then 
of the relationship — the little Indian girl whose interest in 
him had been so apparent when he saw her in the village. 
He dared not smile in response to her vivid glance, but his 
gaze lingered long on the vision of youth and loveliness, and 
he turned back to his meal with a better appetite. 

The feast at an end, Powhatan called his councilors to 
his side, and while they were in earnest debate Captain 
Smith knew only too well that his fate was hanging in the 
balance. At last a stalwart brave arose and spoke to the 
assemblage. The captive, so he said, was known to be the 
leading spirit among the white settlers whose colony was 
too near the Indians' homes to please them, also in his ex- 
pedition in search of corn he had killed four Indian warriors 
with "mysterious weapons which spoke with the voice of 
thunder and breathed the lightning," and he had been 
spying on their land, trying to find some secret means by 
which to betray them. With him out of the way their 
country would be freed from a dangerous menace, therefore 
he was condemned to death. 

Doomed to die! Although he did not understand their 
words, there was no misunderstanding their intention. 
Immediately two great stones were rolled into the hall, to 

4 




POCAHONTAS SAVES CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH 



POCAHONTAS 

the feet of Powhatan, and the Captain was seized roughly, 
dragged forward and forced to he down in such a position 
that his head lay across the stones. Life looked sweet 
to him as he reviewed it in a moment of quick survey while 
waiting for the warriors' clubs to dash out his brains. He 
closed his eyes. Powhatan gave the fatal signal — the clubs 
quivered in the hands of the executioners. A piercing shriek 
rang out, as Pocahontas darted from her father's side, 
sprang between the uplifted clubs of the savages and the 
prostrate Captain, twining her arms around his neck and 
laying her own bright head in such a position that to kill 
the captive would be to kill the Werowance's dearest 
daughter. 

With horror at this staying of his royal purpose, and at 
the sight of his child with her arms around the white man's 
neck, Powhatan stared as if at a hideous vision, and closed 
his ears to the sound of her voice as her defiant Indian words 
rang out: 

"No! He shall not die!" 

The savages stood with upraised weapons; Powhatan 
sat rigid in the intensity of his emotion. Watching him 
closely for some sign of relenting, Pocahontas, without mov- 
ing from her position, began to plead with the stern old 
Chief, — begged, entreated, prayed — until she had her desire. 

"Let the prisoner go free!" 

Through the long Council-room echoed Powhatan's order, 
and a perfunctory shout rose from the savage throng, who 
were always quick to echo their Chief's commands. Cap- 
tain Smith, bewildered by the sudden turn of affairs, was 
helped to rise, led to the beaming girl, and told that the 
condition of his release from death was that he might 
"make hatchets and trinkets" for Pocahontas, the Wero- 
wance's dearest daughter. So his dehverer was the daugh- 
ter of the great Chief! With the courtly manner which he 

5 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

had brought from his Hfe in other lands he bent over the 
warm Httle hand of the Indian maiden with such sincere 
appreciation of her brave deed that she flushed with hap- 
piness, and she ran away with her playmates, singing as 
merrily as a forest bird, leaving the pale-faced Caucar- 
ouse with her royal father, that they might become better 
acquainted. Although she ran off so gaily with her com- 
rades after having rescued Captain Smith, yet she was far 
from heedless of his presence in the village, and soon 
deserted her young friends to steal shyly back, to the side 
of the wonderful white man whose life had been saved 
that he might serve her. 

During the first days of his captivity — for it was that — 
the Captain and Powhatan became very friendly, and had 
many long talks by the camp-fire, by means of a sign lan- 
guage and such words of the Algonquin dialect as Captain 
Smith had learned since coming to Virginia. And often 
Pocahontas squatted by her father's side, her eager eyes 
intent on the Captain's face as he matched the old ruler's 
marvelous tales of hoarded gold possessed by tribes living 
to the west of Werewocomoco, with stories of the cities of 
Europe he had visited, and the strange peoples he had met 
in his wanderings. Sometimes as he told his thrilling tales 
he would hear the little Indian maid catch her breath from 
interest in his narrative, and he would smile responsively 
into her upturned face, feeling a real affection for the young 
girl who had saved his life. 

From his talks with Powhatan the Englishman found out 
that the great desire of the savage ruler was to own some 
of the cannon and grindstones used by the colonists, and 
with quick diplomacy he promised to satisfy this wish if 
Powhatan would but let him go back to Jamestown and send 
with him warriors to carry the coveted articles. This the 
wily Indian ruler promised to do, and in return offered him 

6 



POCAHONTAS 

a tract of land which he did not own, and from which he 
intended to push the settlers if they should take possession 
of it. And Captain Smith had no intention of giving either 
cannon or grindstones to Powhatan, so the shrewd old sav- 
age and the quick-witted Captain were well matched in 
diplomacy. 

Meanwhile, Powhatan's interest in his white captive be- 
came so great that he gave him the freedom he would have 
accorded one of his own subjects, even allowing Pocahontas 
to hunt with him, and when evening came she would sit 
by the great fire and hsten to her Captain's stories of his 
life told with many a graphic gesture which made them clear 
to her even though most of his words were unintelHgible, 

Then came a day when the captive was led to a cabin in 
the heart of the forest and seated on a mat before a smolder- 
ing fire to await he knew not what. Suddenly Powhatan ap- 
peared before him, fantastically dressed, followed by two 
hundred warriors as weirdly decorated as he was. Rushing 
in, they surrounded the frightened Captain, but quickly dis- 
pelled his fears by telUng him that they were all his friends 
and this was only a ceremony to celebrate his speedy return 
to Jamestown, for the purpose of sending back cannon and 
grindstones to their Chief. 

This was good news. The Captain showed hearty ap- 
preciation of the favor, and at once said his farewells. 
Powhatan, the inscrutable, who bade him a dignified good- 
by, repeated his promise to give him the country of the 
Capahowsick, which he did not own, and said he should 
forever honor him as his own son. Then, with an escort 
of twelve Indians, Captain Smith set out for Jamestown, 
and beside him trudged Pocahontas, looking as resolute as 
if she were in truth a forest Princess escorting her chosen 
cavalier through the wilderness. 

As they picked their way along the rough trail, the Cap- 
7 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

tain told her such tales of the settlement as he could make 
clear to her and repeated some simple English words he 
had been trying to teach her. As he talked and as she 
said over and over the words she had learned, Pocahontas 
gripped his arm with rapt interest and longed to follow 
where he led. But night was coming on, it was unwise 
for her to go beyond the last fork of the trail, and so, re- 
luctantly, she parted from her new and wonderful friend. 
But before she left him she darted to the side of a trusty 
warrior and gave a passionate command, then started swift- 
ly back on the long wood path leading to Werewocomoco. 
The next night no one could make her laugh or join in the 
dances around the big fire, nor did she show any likeness to 
the light-hearted, romping, singing little tomboy, ring- 
leader among her playmates. Pocahontas had lost a com- 
rade, and her childish heart was sore at the loss. But when 
the warriors returned from Jamestown she became merry 
and happy again, for had the Caucarouse not sent her back 
strings of beads more beautiful than any she had ever seen 
before, such as proved surely that he had not forgotten 
her? 

The truth of the matter was, that on reaching the colony. 
Captain Smith showed the Indians a grindstone and told 
them to carry it back to Powhatan, but when they tried 
to lift it and found its great weight they were utterly dis- 
concerted. Then the wily Captain showed them a cannon 
purposely loaded with stones, and had it discharged among 
the icicle-laden trees, which so terrified the savages that 
they ran away and refused to take another look at it. 
Then Captain Smith cleverly suggested that they carry 
back trinkets in place of the articles which were so heavy, 
and the Indians went happily away without the promised 
gifts, but bearing many smaller things, some of which the 
Captain was thoughtful enough to suggest be given to Poca- 



POCAHONTAS 

hontas as a slight token of his appreciation of her great ser- 
vice to him. 

Little he dreamed, man of the world though he was, that 
the small courtesy would mean as much to the Indian 
maiden as it did, nor could he know that from that hour 
the dreams of Pocahontas were all to be built around the 
daily life of the pale-faced men in the Jamestown settlement. 
Even when she joined her playmates in her favorite games 
of Gus-ga-e-sa-ta (deer buttons), or Gus-ka-eh (peach-pit), 
or even, — tomboy that she was, — when she turned somer- 
saults with her favorite brother Nantaquaus and his com- 
rades, she was so far from being her usual lively self that the 
boys and girls questioned her about the reason. In reply she 
only flung back her head with an indifferent gesture, and 
walked away from them. Later when the great fires blazed in 
Council Hall and Long House, she sought the trusty warrior 
who had accompanied Captain Smith to Jamestown, and 
he gave her such news of the settlers as he had heard from 
the Indians who loafed about Jamestown. They were on 
friendly terms with the white men, who let them come and 
go at will as long as they were peaceful and did not try to 
pilfer corn or firearms. 

Winter came with its snow and zero weather, and Poca- 
hontas heard of great hunger and many privations among the 
colonists. She held a long secret conversation with the In- 
dian warrior who knew of her interest in the pale-faced 
Caucarouse, then, at twilight of a bitter cold day, she stole 
out from her wigwam, met the warrior at the beginning of 
the Jamestown trail, and after carefully examining the store 
of provisions which she had commanded him to bring, she 
plunged into the gloomy wood trail with her escort, hurrying 
along the rough path in the darkness, until she reached the 
rough stockade guarding the entrance to the settlement. 

The man on watch, who had heard many glowing de- 
9 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

scriptions of the maiden who had saved his Captain's Hfe, 
recognized her at once and admired her exceedingly as she 
stood there in her dusky imperiousness, demanding to see 
the Captain. Astonished, but pleased at her coming, Smith 
quickly came to greet her and was enthusiastic in his thanks 
for the provisions she had brought. Then by the flare of 
a torch he showed his eager guest as much of their little 
village as could be seen in the fast-falling darkness, enjoy- 
ing her questions and her keen interest in such buildings 
and articles as she had never seen before. She responded 
to the EngHshmen's cordiality with shy, appreciative glances 
and would have liked to Hnger, but it was too late for her to 
remain longer, and the colonists crowded around her with 
expressions of regret that she must leave and renewed 
thanks for her gifts. Then Pocahontas and her Indian es- 
cort started back toward Werewocomoco, taking the trail 
with flying feet that her absence might not be discovered. 

From that day she often found her way to Jamestown, 
carrying stores of provisions from her father's well-filled 
larder, sometimes going in broad daylight, with rosy cheeks 
and flying hair, after her morning swim in the river, at other 
times starting out on her errand of mercy at twilight, al- 
ways protected by a faithful warrior who was on terms 
of intimacy with the settlers and felt a deep pride in their 
admiration for Pocahontas, whom they called "The Little 
Angel," and well they might, for they would have gone with- 
out food many a time during that bitter winter but for her 
visits. 

As for Powhatan, he was too well accustomed to the forest 
excursions of his "dearest daughter," and to having her 
roam the neighboring country at will, to watch her care- 
fully. He knew that his daughter was safe on Indian ter- 
ritory, never dreaming that she would go beyond it, and as 
her guide was loyal, there was no one to prevent her from 

ID 



POCAHONTAS 

following out her heart's desires in taking food to her Cap- 
tain and his people. 

But as time went on and Powhatan heard more of the 
wonderful firearms and useful articles possessed by the 
white men, he became not only bitterly jealous of them, 
but determined to secure their arms and articles for his own 
use. "So when the valiant Captain made another visit to 
Werewocomoco and tried to barter beads and other trinkets 
for corn, the old chief refused to trade except for the coveted 
firearms, which the Captain declined to give. But he did 
give him a boy named Thomas Salvage, whom Powhatan 
adopted as his son, and in exchange gave Smith an Indian 
boy, Namontack. Then there were three days of feasting 
and dancing, but of trading there was none, and Captain 
Smith was determined to get corn." He showed Powhatan 
some blue beads which took the Indian ruler's fancy and 
he offered a small amount of corn in exchange for them, but 
the Captain laughed scornfully. Those beads were the 
favorite possession of Kings and Queens in other countries, 
why should they be sold to Pov^^hatan? he asked. Powhatan 
became eager — offered more corn. The Captain hesitated, 
shook his head, and played his part in the transaction so 
well that when at last he gave in, he had secured three 
hundred bushels of corn for the really worthless beads! 

In the following months the Indians threw off their mask 
of friendhness for the colonists and began to steal the fire- 
arms so coveted by Powhatan. For some time the white 
men were patient under the annoyance, but when knives 
and swords began to go, a watch was set for the thieves, 
and nine of them were caught and detained at the James- 
town fort, for Captain Smith suspected treachery on Pow- 
hatan's part and determined to hold them until all the stolen 
articles were sent back. In return the Indians captured two 
stragghng EngHshmen and came in a shouting throng to 

II 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

scriptions of the maiden who had saved his Captain's Hfe, 
recognized her at once and admired her exceedingly as she 
stood there in her dusky imperiousness, demanding to see 
the Captain. Astonished, but pleased at her coming, Smith 
quickly came to greet her and was enthusiastic in his thanks 
for the provisions she had brought. Then by the flare of 
a torch he showed his eager guest as much of their little 
village as could be seen in the fast-falling darkness, enjoy- 
ing her questions and her keen interest in such buildings 
and articles as she had never seen before. She responded 
to the Englishmen's cordiality with shy, appreciative glances 
and would have liked to linger, but it was too late for her to 
remain longer, and the colonists crowded around her with 
expressions of regret that she must leave and renewed 
thanks for her gifts. Then Pocahontas and her Indian es- 
cort started back toward Werewocomoco, taking the trail 
with flying feet that her absence might not be discovered. 

From that day she often found her way to Jamestown, 
carrying stores of provisions from her father's well-filled 
larder, sometimes going in broad daylight, with rosy cheeks 
and flying hair, after her morning swim in the river, at other 
times starting out on her errand of mercy at twilight, al- 
ways protected by a faithful warrior who was on terms 
of intimacy with the settlers and felt a deep pride in their 
admiration for Pocahontas, whom they called "The Little 
Angel," and well they might, for they would have gone with- 
out food many a time during that bitter winter but for her 
visits. 

As for Powhatan, he was too well accustomed to the forest 
excursions of his "dearest daughter," and to having her 
roam the neighboring country at will, to watch her care- 
fully. He knew that his daughter was safe on Indian ter- 
ritory, never dreaming that she would go beyond it, and as 
her guide was loyal, there was no one to prevent her from 

ID 



POCAHONTAS 

following out her heart's desires in taking food to her Cap- 
tain and his people. 

But as time went on and Powhatan heard more of the 
wonderful firearms and useful articles possessed by the 
white men, he became not only bitterly jealous of them, 
but determined to secure their arms and articles for his own 
use. "So when the valiant Captain made another visit to 
Werewocomoco and tried to barter beads and other trinkets 
for corn, the old chief refused to trade except for the coveted 
firearms, which the Captain declined to give. But he did 
give him a boy named Thomas Salvage, whom Powhatan 
adopted as his son, and in exchange gave Smith an Indian 
boy, Namontack. Then there were three days of feasting 
and dancing, but of trading there was none, and Captain 
Smith was determined to get corn." He showed Powhatan 
some blue beads which took the Indian ruler's fancy and 
he offered a small amount of corn in exchange for them, but 
the Captain laughed scornfully. Those beads were the 
favorite possession of Kings and Queens in other countries, 
why should they be sold to Powhatan ? he asked. Powhatan 
became eager — offered more corn. The Captain hesitated, 
shook his head, and played his part in the transaction so 
well that when at last he gave in, he had secured three 
hundred bushels of corn for the really worthless beads! 

In the following months the Indians threw off their mask 
of friendliness for the colonists and began to steal the fire- 
arms so coveted by Powhatan. For some time the white 
men were patient under the annoyance, but when knives 
and swords began to go, a watch was set for the thieves, 
and nine of them were caught and detained at the James- 
town fort, for Captain Smith suspected treachery on Pow- 
hatan's part and determined to hold them until all the stolen 
articles were sent back. In return the Indians captured two 
straggling EngHshmen and came in a shouting throng to 

II 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

the fort clamoring for the release of the imprisoned Indians. 
Out came the bold Captain and demanded the instant free- 
ing of the settlers. His force and tactics were so superior 
to those of the savages that they were obliged to give up 
their captives. Then the Captain examined his Indian 
prisoners and forced them into a confession of Powhatan's 
plot to procure all the weapons possible from the colonists, 
which were then to be used to kill their rightful owners. 
That was all the Captain wanted of the Indians, but he still 
kept them imprisoned, to give them a wholesome fright. 
Powhatan, enraged at hearing of the failure of his plot 
against the white men, determined that his warriors should 
be freed at once. He would try another way to gain his 
end. From his rustic throne in the Council Hall he sent 
for Pocahontas. She was playing a game of Gawasa (snow- 
snake) with two of her comrades, but left them instantly 
and ran to the Council Hall. Long and earnestly Powhatan 
talked to her, and she Ustened intently. When he had 
finished a pleased expression flashed into her black eyes. 

"I will do what 3^ou wish," she said, then ran back to 
join in the game she had left so suddenly. 

The next morning she went swiftly along the forest trail 
now so familiar to her, and at length approached the set- 
tlers' stockade and demanded audience with the Captain. 
He was busy chopping trees at the other end of the settle- 
ment, but dropped his ax at the summons and hurried to 
bid the little maiden welcome with the courtly deference 
he always showed her, whether he really felt it or not. 
With folded arms and intent silence he listened to her plea: 

For her sake would he not give up the Indians detained 
in the fort as prisoners? Powhatan was very anxious that 
the pleasant relations betvv^een himself and the Enghshmen 
should not be disturbed by such an unfriendly act as hold- 
ing his men captive. Would the noble Caucarouse not 



POCAHONTAS 

free them for the sake of that maiden who had saved his 
hfe? 

Captain Smith listened with a set expression and sol- 
dierly bearing and tried to evade glancing into the girl's 
eager eyes, but found it impossible. One look broke down 
his iron determination, and bending over her hand with his 
Old World chivalry, he said: 

"Your request shall be granted. They shall be freed, 
but not in justice, simply as an act of friendship for you, 
who saved my life." 

His intention was clear, though his words were not 
understood. Jo3^fully Pocahontas beamed and blushed her 
rapturous thanks. Smith, none too happy over the result 
of Powhatan's shrewd move, called forth the sullen warriors 
from the fort, and sent them on their way back to Were- 
wocomoco, led by victorious Pocahontas. 

But the Indian girl did not spend all of her time in such 
heroic deeds as this, nor in dreaming of the pale-faced 
Caucarouse. She was usually the merry, care-free child of 
the forest and daily led her mates in sport and dance. 
Once when the Captain went to Werewocomoco to confer 
with Powhatan on matters concerning neighboring tribes, 
and found the great Chief away from home, Pocahontas 
did the honors of the village in her father's place. After 
sending an Indian runner to request the old ruler to return, 
she invited Smith and his companions to be seated in an 
open space before the huge fire which had been built for 
their benefit. 

There, with the clear starlit sky over their heads, and 
the forest on all sides, they awaited the pleasure of their 
dusky hostess. But she remained away from them for so 
long that they grew uneasy, fearing some plot against them. 
While the Captain was wondering what to do in case of 
treachery, the woods suddenly resounded with wild shrieks 

13 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

and hideous yells. All jumped to their feet, but stepped 
back at sight of Pocahontas, who darted from the woods to 
the Captain's side and said that there was nothing to fear, 
that she would not allow a hair of the white men's heads 
to be injured, but had merely arranged a masquerade to 
amuse her guests while they awaited Powhatan's coming. 
Then she flitted back into the forest, and presently she 
danced out, leading a band of thirty young Indian girls, 
whose bodies were all stained with puccoon and painted with 
gay colors, while such garments as they wore were made 
of brilliant green leaves. "Pocahontas, as leader, wore a 
head-dress of buck's horns and girdle of otter-skin; across 
her shoulder was slung a quiver filled with arrows, and 
she carried a bow. Her companions all carried rattles 
made of dried gourds, or clubs, or wooden swords as they 
rushed out of the forest yelling and swaying to weird music 
while they formed a ring around the fire. There they joined 
hands and kept on dancing and singing in a weird, fantastic 
way for an hour, when at a whoop from their leader they all 
ran into the forest, but soon came back in their ordinary 
Indian dress, to spread a feast before the white men and 
spend the remainder of the evening in dancing and revels, 
after which, by the Hght of flaming torches, they escorted 
their guests to their tents for the night." 

The next morning Powhatan came back, and was told 
Captain Smith's errand. He had come to invite the old 
Werowance to visit Jamestown, to receive gifts which 
Captain Newport, a colonist who had just come back from 
England, had brought from King James. The King had 
been much interested in what Newport told him about the 
Indian ruler, and thought it would be a fine idea to send 
him back some presents, also a crown, which he suggested 
might be placed on the savage's head with the ceremonies 
of a coronation, and the robe thrown over his shoulders, 

14 



POCAHONTAS 

while he was proclaimed Emperor of his own domains. 
This ceremony, King James thought, might bring about a 
warmer friendship between the red men and the colonists, — 
a result much to be desired. And so Captain Smith gave 
the invitation while Pocahontas, never far away when her 
Caucarouse was at Werewocomoco, listened eagerly for her 
father's reply. 

Powhatan received the invitation in silence and smoked 
a long time before answering. Then he said: 

"If your King has sent me presents, I also am a King, 
and this is my land. Eight days will I stay to receive 
them. Your father (Newport) is to come to me, not I to 
him, nor yet to your fort." 

Wily Powhatan! He had no intention of visiting the 
white men's stronghold, when by so doing he might walk 
into some trap they had laid for him! 

And so Pocahontas was disappointed in her eager hope 
of going with her father to the settlement where her white 
friends lived, and where she could see her wonderful Cap- 
tain daily. But there was no help for it. Powhatan re- 
sisted both her pleading and the arguments of the Captain, 
who was obliged to carry back the old Werowance's refusal 
to Captain Newport. 

"Then we will take the gifts to him!" said Newport, 
stoutly. "The King would never forgive me if I did not 
carry out his wish." 

And so to Werewocomoco went the two Captains together, 
bearing their offerings to Powhatan, who received them with 
dignity, and showed a mild interest when presented with a 
bedstead and a basin and pitcher such as the English used. 
But when Captain Smith tried to throw the coronation robe 
over his shoulders he drew away haughtily, wrapped his own 
mantle around him, and refused to listen to argument or 
entreaty. Namontack hastily assured him that the gar- 

15 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

ments were like those worn by the EngHsh and would do 
him no harm, and Pocahontas, seeing the Captain's eager- 
ness to accomplish his end, and also keenly interested in 
this new game, begged her father to accept the beautiful 
gifts. Her words influenced the old ruler, and, standing as 
stiff and straight as a wooden image, he let himself be dressed 
up in the garb of English royalty. Then he was told to 
kneel while the crown was placed on his head, but this was 
too much for even Pocahontas to expect of him. He folded 
his arms and stood like a pine-tree. In vain Pocahontas 
urged, in vain the two white men bent and bowed and knelt 
before him to show him what he ought to do. 

At last Captain Smith grew impatient and laid a power- 
ful hand on the Werowance's broad shoulders; uncon- 
sciously he stooped. The crown was hurriedly placed on 
his head, and a volley of shots was fired to show that the 
ceremony was over. At the shots Powhatan sprang free 
like a wild creature, sure that he had been trapped, and 
Captain Smith appealed to Pocahontas to explain to her 
terrified father that the firing was only part of the program. 
Meanwhile both Captains bowed ceremoniously before the 
savage ruler, caUing him by his new title — Emperor — and 
finally soothed and reassured, he stood as erect and digni- 
fied as of old, and beckoning majestically to Namontack, 
bade him bring his old moccasins and mantle to send to 
King James in return for the crown and robe! 

Much amused. Captain Newport thanked him and re- 
ceived the gift, but told him that more than moccasins or 
mantles, the Englishmen desired his aid in attacking a 
neighboring and hostile tribe. In this desire, however, 
Powhatan showed no interest, and the two Captains were 
obliged to leave Werewocomoco without his co-operation, 
which would have been of much benefit in subduing the 
unfriendly tribe. But the coronation ceremony had been 

i6 



POCAHONTAS 

accomplished; that was one thing for which to be thankful 
and Captain Newport had for the first time seen the charm- 
ing Indian girl who had become such an ally of the set- 
tlers, so he felt well repaid for the visit, although to him 
Pocahontas showed none of the spontaneous sumpathy 
which she gave so joyously to Captain Smith. 

And now again came winter and with it privation and 
hunger for the colonists. Corn must be procured. There 
was only one man stout-hearted enough to venture on an- 
other expedition in search of it, and that was Captain 
Smith. He decided to go to Werewocomoco once more, and 
if he found the new-made Emperor rebellious, to prompt- 
ly make him prisoner and carry away his stores of corn by 
force. 

While the Captain and his men were making ready to 
start on the expedition, to their great surprise messengers 
arrived from Powhatan inviting Captain Smith to visit 
Werewocomoco again if he would bring with him men to 
build a house and give the Emperor a grindstone, fifty 
swords, some firearms, a hen and rooster, and much beads 
and copper, for which he would be given corn. 

Immediately forty-six Englishmen set out on a snowy 
December day, in two barges and a pinnace, for Werewo- 
comoco. The first night they spent at the Indian village 
of Warrasqueake, where a friendly chief warned Captain 
Smith not to go further. 

"You shall find Powhatan to use you kindly," he said, 
"but trust him not, and be sure he have no opportunity to 
seize on your arms, for he hath sent for you only to cut 
your throats." 

On hearing these words many of his comrades would have 
turned back, but the Captain spoke to them in such coura- 
geous words that in spite of the warning all continued on 
their way. 

17 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

While they were journeying on toward their destination, 
Pocahontas, at Werewocomoco, was daily with her father, 
watching him with alert ears and eyes, for she saw that the 
old ruler was brooding over some matter of grave import, 
and she drew her own inference. Only when planning to 
wage war on an alien tribe or plotting against the James- 
town settlers did he so mope and muse and fail to respond 
to her overtures. Late one evening, when she saw two of 
his loyal warriors steal to his side, in order to hear their 
conversation better she climbed a near-by tree and listened 
to their muttered words. Her suspicions were confirmed. 
There was need of her intervention again. From that mo- 
ment until she had foiled Powhatan's design, she was on 
guard day and night watching and waiting for the coming 
of the Englishmen, often lying sleepless in her wigwam to 
listen for some unwonted noise in the hushed forest. 

When the party from Jamestown reached the Indian vil- 
lage the river was frozen over for a half-mile from shore. 
With his usual impetuous courage the Captain broke the 
ice by jumping into the frozen stream, and swam ashore, 
followed by the others, who were ashamed to be less cour- 
ageous than he. It was nearly night, and they took pos- 
session of a deserted wigwam in the woods near the shore 
and sent word to Powhatan that they were in immediate 
need of food, as their journey had been a long one, and asked 
if he would not send provisions at once. In response an 
Indian runner came to their wigwam bearing bread, turkeys, 
and venison, much to the delight of the half-starved colonists. 
Refreshed by a good meal, they slept heavily in the still 
forest, and early the next morning went to pay their re- 
spects to Powhatan, who was in his "Chief Place of Council" 
awaiting their visit in his gala robe of luxurious skins and 
elaborate feather head-dress. His greeting was courteous, 
but he at once turned to Captain Smith and asked: 

i8 



POCAHONTAS 

"When are you going away? I did not invite you to 
come." 

Although taken by surprise, quick-witted Captain Smith 
did not show his feelings, but pointing to a group of Indian 
warriors standing near, he said: 

"There are the very men who came to Jamestown to 
invite us here!" 

At this Powhatan gave a guttural laugh and changed the 
subject at once, by asking to see the articles which Captain 
Smith had brought for exchange. Then began a long and 
hot discussion in which neither the Captain nor the wily 
Emperor gained a point. Powhatan refused to trade un- 
less the white men left their firearms on their barges and 
would barter corn only for the coveted articles. Captain 
Smith would not accede to his demands even to get the 
much-needed corn, and was on his guard because of the 
warning he had received, knowing that Powhatan was only 
waiting for the right moment to kill him. 

The debate went on for hours, during which there had 
been only one trade made when Smith exchanged a copper 
kettle for forty bushels of corn. Annoyed at this, he de- 
termined to take matters into his own hand. Beckoning 
to some friendly Indians, he asked them to go to the river 
bank and signal to his men on the barges to come ashore 
with baskets to take back the corn for which he had traded 
the kettle. Meanwhile he kept up a brisk conversation with 
the old Werowance to divert his attention, assuring him 
that on the next day he and his men would leave their fire- 
arms on the ships, trusting to Powhatan's promise that no 
harm should come to them. 

Powhatan was too clever to be fooled by any such de- 
lightful promise; he knew the quick-witted Captain was 
probably playing the same game that he was, and feared 
lest the white man should be quicker than he at it. He 
3 19 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

slyly whispered a command to a young warrior, and at a 
sign from him two gaily decorated squaws darted forward 
and, squatting at the feet of the Captain, began to sing 
tribal songs to the beating of drums and shaking of rattles, 
and while they sang Powhatan silently drew his fur robe 
about him and stole away to a forest retreat long prepared 
for an hour of danger. Before him went a supply of pro- 
visions, and with him some women and children, but not 
Pocahontas. Meeting her father in his hasty flight, she 
listened to his request that she go with him, but with 
a laughing gesture of refusal she fled through the woods 
to the place where the white men were grouped. The 
old Chief's power over his daughter had been greatly 
weakened by the coming of the colonists to Jamestown, 
and who knows what a fire of envy that may have kindled 
in his heart? 

As soon as the Emperor reached his hiding-place, he sent 
an old Sachem in war paint and feathers back to Captain 
Smith, bearing a valuable bracelet as an offering, and say- 
ing that his chief had fled because he feared the white man's 
weapons, but if they could be laid aside, he, Powhatan, 
would return to give the colonists an abundance of corn. 
Captain Smith, with arms folded and flashing eyes, refused 
the bracelet and the request, and the Sachem went back to 
carry the news to Powhatan. 

Pocahontas had watched the interview with breathless 
interest, and when she saw the old warrior turn away, and 
knew that Captain Smith had foiled her father's intent, 
she knew that the brave Caucarouse was in great danger. 
That night, while all the EngHshmen except their leader 
were out hunting, the Captain sat alone in his wigwam 
musing on ways and means to gain his end. There was a 
sound in the still forest — a crackling of underbrush — he 
roused at a light touch on his arm. Pocahontas stood by 

20 



POCAHONTAS 

his side, alone in the darkness; swiftly she whispered her 
message and he understood its gravity only too well. 

"My father is going to send you food, and, if you eat it, 
you will die," she said. **It is not safe for you to stay here 
any longer. Oh, go! I beg you, go!" 

She was shivering in her fear for his safety, and the Cap- 
tain was deeply moved by her emotion. Raising her hand 
to his lips in his wonted fashion, he thanked her and offered 
her the choicest beads in his store for a remembrance, but 
she would not accept them! 

"He would want to know where I got them, and then he 
would kill me, too," she said, and vanished as silently and 
swiftly as she had come. 

As she had reported, soon there came warriors from Pow- 
hatan bearing huge vessels filled with food, smoking hot. 
The Chief had returned to Werewocomoco, they said, and 
wished to show his good-will to the white men. Would 
they partake of a feast which he had sent? 

They set down their burden of tempting food, and the 
Captain's eyes gleamed; with a profound bow he thanked 
Powhatan for his courtesy, but he said: 

"When we EngHsh make a feast for any one, we ourselves 
first taste each dish before we offer it to our guests. If you 
would have me eat what you have brought, you must first 
taste of each dish yourselves." 

His manner was defiant as he stood waiting for them 
to accept his challenge, and, seeing they made no move 
to touch what they had brought, he said, still more de- 
fiantly: 

"Tell your Chief to come on and attack us. We are 
ready for you!" 

So soldierly was he, that the frightened Indians turned 
and fled, while the colonists hastily threw away the food 
Powhatan had sent. The old ruler had again been check- 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

mated by his daughter's loyalty to the white men and the 
Captain's courage. 

Early the next morning, when the tide was right, the 
white men were able to leave Werewocomoco, and all on 
board the barges drew sighs of relief as they sailed away 
from the Emperor's stronghold. 

While they had been absent from Jamestown a party 
had set out for a neighboring island, but a great storm hav- 
ing come up, their boat had been swamped and all on board 
drowned. As they were the men who had been left in 
charge of the colony during Smith's absence, it was necessary 
to send him word immediately, and one of the survivors, 
Richard Wyffin, was sent on the errand. When he arrived 
at Werewocomoco the colonists had left, and Powhatan was 
in a sullen fury against them for having outwitted him. 
Wyffin's life was in danger, and he must escape as quickly 
as possible. Pocahontas hurried to his rescue and at a 
moment when there were no Indians to see, she took him 
to a forest hiding-place where he could safely spend the 
night. Later, under cover of the darkness, she crept to 
the spot, awakened him and led him to the edge of the 
woods, directing him to take the opposite trail from that 
on which her father's braves were watching to capture him. 
And so he escaped and joined the other colonists at Pamun- 
key, where they had gone from Werewocomoco, Captain 
Smith being determined either to get corn from Opechan- 
canough or to burn his storehouses, for he, like Powhatan, 
had promised to trade with the white men. But he proved 
treacherous, too, and Captain Smith, exasperated and des- 
perate, sprang on him and *'in a fierce encounter nearly 
knocked the breath out of his huge body, then jammed him up 
against the wall, placed the muzzle of his gun at his breast, 
and, seizing him by his scalp-lock, dragged him out into full 
view of his assembled subjects and gave him the alternative — 

22 



POCAHONTAS 

"*Your corn or your life!' 

"Under the circumstances Opechancanough promptly de- 
cided to give the corn, and with a ship full of the much- 
needed provisions the settlers sailed triumphantly back to 
Jamestown." 

When this was reported to Powhatan it greatly increased 
his respect for the pale-faced Caiicarouse, but he was still 
enraged at the failure of his plan to kill him, and he com- 
manded his warriors to capture him as soon as possible; 
but meanwhile events occurred which worked for the Cap- 
tain's good. A Chickahominy Indian had stolen various 
articles from the settlers, among them a pistol. He escaped, 
but his two brothers, who were known to be his accomplices, 
were captured and one held in the Jamestown fort, while 
the other was told to go for the pistol, and if he did not 
return with it in twelve hours his brother would be hung. 
Away went the Indian — while the Captain took pity on the 
poor naked wretch imprisoned in the cold cell and sent 
him some food and charcoal for a fire — the fumes from 
which suffocated him. When his brother came back with 
the pistol he lay senseless on the ground. Captain Smith at 
once hurried to the spot and worked so hard to revive him 
that he recovered, and the next morning was well enough 
to leave the fort with his brother, both of them having been 
given substantial presents of copper. The story was told 
among the tribe as a miracle, and the belief became current 
that to his other virtues the brave Captain added that of 
being able to raise men from the dead. Then one of Pow- 
hatanV warriors secretly secured a bag of gunpowder and 
pretended that he could use it as the English did. His 
dusky comrades crowded around to watch him manage the 
strange article, but in some way it caught fire, and blew 
him, with one or two more, to death. This happening so 
awed and terrified those Indians who saw the accident that 

23 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

they began to be superstitious about the knowledge of the 
settlers, who could make such powerful things obey their 
will. It was better to be a friend than foe of the white 
man, so even Powhatan concluded, and warriors from all 
the neighboring tribes came to Jamestown bringing presents, 
also stolen articles, and begging for friendly relations instead 
of attempting to capture Captain Smith. 

Then came an event which forever changed the life of 
Pocahontas, the Captain's staunch admirer. He, after hav- 
ing adventured up the James River to visit a struggling 
colony there, was sailing down the river feeling weary and 
discouraged, as he had many enemies working against him 
at Jamestown, and was so disheartened that he determined 
to leave Virginia forever. As he lay musing and trying 
to sleep in the stern of the ship, a bag of gunpowder ex- 
ploded, wounding him so badly that he leaped into the 
water to cool the burning agony of his flesh. He was 
rescued and the ship sailed for Jamestown with all possible 
haste. His wounds were dressed, but he was in a dangerous 
condition and there was no skilled surgeon to care for him, 
so his plight was pitiable. An Indian carried the sad news 
to Pocahontas, who at once deserted her comrades for soli- 
tary brooding in the forest. Then she took the long wood 
trail to Jamestown. Hours later one of the settlers found 
her standing outside the stockade, peering through the 
cracks between the logs as though it were some comfort 
to see into the village where her Captain lay — that Captain 
who held her heart in his keeping. She would have stood 
there less quietly had she known that an enemy of his had 
stolen into his cabin and at that very moment was holding 
a pistol to the wounded man's bosom, trying to nerve him- 
self to do a deed he had been bribed to do! But his 
courage failed, his hand dropped, and he crept out into the 
silent night, leaving the wounded man unharmed. While 

24 



POCAHONTAS 

Pocahontas stood on tiptoe outside the stockade, strain- 
ing her eager eyes for a glimpse of the Captain's cabin, 
there were footsteps beside her — a hand was laid on her 
shoulder, and a voice asked: 

"Why are you here at such an hour, Pocahontas?" 

It was one of the colonists who was Captain Smith's 
loyal friend. Pocahontas turned to him, gripping her slender 
hands together in an agony of appeal. 

*'He is not dead?" she asked. The man shook his head 
and a glad light flashed into the girl's eyes. 

"He has many enemies," she said. "Can you do nothing 
to nurse him back to health?" 

Tears stood in her black eyes, and her appeal would have 
softened a heart less interested in the Captain's welfare 
than was her hearer's. Promising to watch over the brave 
Captain and care for him as his own kin, the white man 
soothed and comforted Pocahontas, and at last induced 
her to leave her place at the fort and go back to Werewo- 
comoco, and never did the Captain know of her long vigil 
for his sake that night. 

Reaching the Indian village without her absence having 
been discovered, she went about her daily routine of work 
and play as if nothing had happened, but every sound in 
the still forest caused her heart to beat fast, and she was 
always listening for an approaching footstep bringing news 
of her beloved. Then a warrior brought the tidings — Cap- 
tain Smith was dead. Dead! She could not, would not 
believe it! Dead! He who was so full of life and vigor 
was not dead — that was too absurd. And yet even as she 
reasoned with herself, she accepted the fact without ques- 
tion with the immobility of her race; and no one guessed 
the depth of her wound, even though all the tribe had 
known of her devotion to the pale-faced Caucarouse whose 
life she had saved. 

25 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

From that day she went no more to Jamestown, nor 
asked for news of the settlers, and soon the gay voice and 
the laughing eyes of the "httle romp" were missing, too, 
from Werewocomoco. Pocahontas could not bear the sights 
and sounds of that village whose every tree and trail was 
dear to her because of its association with her Captain. 
She had relatives among the Potomacks, and to them she 
went for a long visit, where in different surroundings she 
could more easily bear the loneliness which overpowered 
her, child of a savage and unemotional race though she 
was. It may have been also that Powhatan was beginning 
to distrust her friendship with the white men. At all events, 
she, who was fast blossoming into the most perfect woman- 
hood of her race, remained away from home for many 
months. Had she dreamed that Captain Smith was not 
dead, but had sailed for England that he might have proper 
care for his injury, and also because of the increasing enmity 
against him in the colony, she would have gone about her 
work and play with a hghter heart. But she thought him 
dead, and in the mystic faith of her people saw him living 
in every tree and cloud and blossoming thing. 

Powhatan had respected Captain Smith, but for the white 
men as a race he had more enmity than liking, and now he 
and his neighbors, the Chickahominies, again refused to 
send any provisions to Jamestown, and again the colonists 
faced a famine. Captain Argall, in command of an EngUsh 
ship, suggested once more going to Werewocomoco to force 
Powhatan into giving them corn, and soon sailed up the 
Potomac toward the Indian village. One night on the 
wai^ up, while the ship lay at anchor near shore, an Indian 
came aboard with the news that the Emperor's dearest 
daughter, Pocahontas, was staying among the Potomacks 
visiting a chief named Japazaws. The unscrupulous Cap- 
tain had an idea. If he could capture Pocahontas and hold 

26 



POCAHONTAS 

her for a ransom he would surely be able to gain anything 
he demanded from Powhatan. No thought of the kindness 
and loyalty of the Indian maiden to the white man inter- 
fered with his scheming. Corn he must have, and here 
was a way to obtain it. He quickly arranged with the In- 
dian for an interview with the Chief Japazaws, who proved 
to be quite as unscrupulous as Captain Argall, and for a cop- 
per kettle promised to deliver Pocahontas into the Cap- 
tain's hands — in fact, to bring her aboard his vessel on the 
following day. 

Having taken his wife into his confidence, Japazaws told 
her in the presence of Pocahontas that the white Captain 
had invited her to visit his ship. She retorted that she 
would like to accept, but would not go unless Pocahontas 
would go too. Japazaws pretended to be very angry at 
this : — 

"I wish you to go,'* he exclaimed; "if you do not accept 
I will beat you until you do." 

But the squaw was firm. 

"I will not go without Pocahontas," she declared. 

Pocahontas was very kind-hearted, as the chief and his 
wife knew, so at once she said: 

"Stop beating her; I will do as she wishes!" 

Captain Argall gave them a cordial greeting and had a 
lavish feast prepared in their honor, and while they were 
talking together he asked Pocahontas if she would not hke 
to see the gun-room. She assented, entirely unsuspicious 
of any treachery, and was horrified when she heard the door 
fastened behind her, and knew that for some reason she was a 
prisoner. Terror-stricken, — brave girl though she was, — she 
pounded violently on the door and cried as she had never 
cried before in all her care-free Hfe, begging "Let me out!" 
but in vain. She could hear Japazaws and his wife weeping 
even more violently than she on the other side of the door, 

27 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

and begging for her release, but it was only a pretense. The 
door remained locked, and as soon as the couple were given 
the copper kettle and a few trinkets, they left the ship 
contentedly. After that there was an ominous silence on 
the vessel, except for the sobbing of the Indian girl, who 
was still more frightened as she felt the motion of the ship 
and knew they were getting under way. 

But as they sailed down the river to Jamestown, the 
captain unlocked the door and the girl was allowed to 
come out of her prison. She faced him with a passionate 
question: 

"What wrong have I done that I should be so treated — 
I who have been always the loyal friend of the English?" 

So noble was she in her youth and innocence, that the 
captain was horrified at the deed he had done and could do 
no less than tell her the truth. He assured her that she had 
done no wrong, that he well knew that she was the white 
man's friend, and that no harm should befall her, but that 
it was necessary to take firm measures to secure provisions 
for the starving colonists. Hearing this, she was less 
frightened and became quiet, if not in spirit, at least in man- 
ner, giving no cause for trouble as they entered the harbor. 
But her heart was filled with sadness when she again saw 
that fort to which she had so often gone with aid for her 
vanished friend whose name now never passed her lips. 

Indian girls mature rapidly, and the maiden who had first 
attracted Captain Smith's attention was no less lovely now, 
but she was in the full flower of womanliness and her charm 
and dignity of carriage compelled respect from all. 

Powhatan was in his Place of Council when a messenger 
from Jamestown demanded audience with him and gave 
his message in quick, jerky sentences: 

"Your daughter Pocahontas has been taken captive by 
the Englishmen," he said. "She will be held until you send 

28 



POCAHONTAS 

back to Jamestown all the guns, tools, and men stolen from 
them by j^our warriors." 

The old chief, terrified, grief-stricken, and in a dilemma, 
knew not what to say, for though he loved his daughter, 
he was determined to keep the firearms taken from the 
English. For a long time he was deep in thought. Finally 
he replied: 

"The white men will not harm my child, who was their 
very good friend. They know my wrath will fall on them 
if they harm a hair of her head. Let her remain with them 
until I shall have made my decision." 

Not another word would he say, but strode out from the 
Council Hall and was lost in the forest. 

Three months went by without the Englishmen receiving 
a word from him, and Pocahontas meanwhile became their 
inspiration and joy, giving no sign that she feared her cap- 
tors or objected to her captivity. Then Powhatan sent 
seven white men who had been held by the Indians to the 
settlement, carrying a gun which had been spoiled for use. 
Their leader brought this message from the Indian Emperor: 

"If you will send back my daughter I will send you five 
hundred bushels of corn and be your friend forever. I have 
no more guns to return, as the remainder have been lost." 

Prompt was the retort: 

"Tell your Chief that his daughter will not be restored 
to him until our demand has been complied with. We do 
not believe that the guns have been lost." 

The runner took back the message, and again nothing 
more was heard from Powhatan for several months, during 
which time the colonists became so deeply attached to the 
young captive that they dreaded to think of the settlement 
without her cheery presence. Especially did John Rolfe, a 
young widower, who was by report "an English gentleman 
of approved behavior and honest carriage," feel a special 

29 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

Interest in the charming young savage; in fact he fell in 
love with her, but felt that he must convert her to the 
Christian religion before asking her to become his wife. 
So he devoted much time to instructing her in the doctrines 
of the white man's faith. Pocahontas accepted the new 
religion eagerly, and little did John Rolfe guess that to 
her it was the religion of Captain John Smith, — a new tie 
binding her to the man who she believed had gone forever 
beyond her sight, but who would be forever dearest to 
her loyal heart, untutored girl of the forest though she was. 
It is doubtful, too, whether John Rolfe would ever have 
made any headway in her affection had she not believed her 
beloved Captain to be dead. However that may have 
been, she became a convert to Christianity, and John Rolfe 
asked her to marry him. 

When almost a year had gone by with no word from 
Powhatan, the colonists were very angry and decided to 
force the issue. A party in command of Sir Thomas Dale, 
who had come from England to be the leader of the James- 
town settlement, sailed for Werewocomoco, taking Poca- 
hontas with them, hoping that when Powhatan heard of 
the presence of his dearest daughter at his very door he 
would relent and yield to their demands. 

But Powhatan was not at Werewocomoco. Anticipating 
just such a visit, he was in a safe retreat, and his warriors 
who thronged to the river bank to meet the white men at 
once attacked them, and there was lively skirmishing until 
two brothers of Pocahontas heard of her arrival. Hurry- 
ing to the river bank, they quelled the turmoil and hastily 
paddled out to the ship, where they were soon standing 
beside their sister, seeing with joy that despite her captivity 
she was well and happy, with the same merry light in her 
black eyes as she had in her forest days. Their feeling 
deepened into awe when with downcast eyes and flushed 

30 



POCAHONTAS 

cheeks she told them of John Rolfe's love for her and of her 
attachment for him. Their sister girl of the forest, kin of 
the red men, — going to marry an Englishman from that mar- 
velous land across the sea, of which one of their tribe who 
had visited it had brought back the report: ** Count the 
stars in the sky, the leaves on the trees, and the sand upon 
the seashore — such is the number of the people of England!" 
Pocahontas, their little sister, going to marry an English- 
man! — the stalwart Indian boys could scarcely beheve the 
tale, and on leaving the ship they hurried to their father's 
forest retreat to tell their wondrous tale. The old Chief 
listened with inscrutable reserve, but his eyes gleamed with 
exultation and in his heart he rejoiced. His daughter, child 
of an Indian Werowance, to become wife of a white man, — 
the two races to be united ? Surely this would be a greater 
advantage than all the firearms that could be bought or 
stolen! 

But if he expected that the breach between the white 
men and the red would be at once healed, he was mistaken. 
Although Pocahontas greeted her brothers so cordially, she 
would have nothing to do with her father or any of his 
braves, and when Powhatan desired to see her she sent 
back the imperious message: 

"Tell him if he had loved his daughter he would not 
have valued her less than old swords, pieces, and axes; 
wherefore will I still dwell with the Englishmen who love 
me!" 

And back to Jamestown she presently sailed with those 
men of the race to which she had been loyal even in her 
captivity. 

That Powhatan did not resent her refusal to see him 
after his long silence, but probably admired her for her deter- 
mination, was soon shown. Ten days after the party 
reached Jamestown an Indian warrior, Opachisco, uncle of 

31 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

Pocahontas, and two of her brothers, arrived there, sent 
by Powhatan to show his approval of his daughter's alHance 
with an Englishman, although nothing would have induced 
him to visit the white man's settlement himself, even to 
witness the marriage of his dearest daughter. 

Having become a convert to the white man's faith, Poca- 
hontas was baptized according to the ritual of the Christian 
church, taking the name of Rebecca, and as she was the 
daughter of an Emperor, she was afterwards called "Lady 
Rebecca"; but to those who had known her in childhood 
she would ever be Pocahontas, the "little romp." 

And now the Indian maiden, who by her loyalty to the 
white race had changed the course of her hfe, was about to 
merge her identity in that of the colonists: — 

"On a balmy April day, with sunshine streaming through 
the open windows of the Jamestown chapel, the rude place 
of worship was filled to overflowing with colonists, all eager- 
ly interested in the wedding of John Rolfe with the dusky 
princess who was the first Christian Indian in Virginia." 

The rustic chapel had been decorated with woodland 
blossoms, and its windows garlanded with vines. Its 
columns were pine-trees cut from the forest, its rude pews 
of sweet-smelling cedar, and its simple Communion table 
covered with bread made from wheat grown in neighboring 
fields, and with wine from the luscious wild grapes picked 
in near-by woods. 

There, in the beauty and fragrance of the spring day, 
up the aisle of the chapel passed the young Indian bride 
on the arm of John Rolfe, who looked every inch an Eng- 
lish gentleman in his cavalier's costume. And very lovely 
was the new-made Lady Rebecca in her gown of white 
muslin with its richly embroidered over-dress given by Sir 
Thomas Dale. Her head-dress of birds' plumage was 
banded across her forehead, Indian fashion, with a jeweled 

32 



POCAHONTAS 

fillet, which also caught her floating veil, worn in the Eng- 
lish way, which emphasized her dark beauty. On her wrists 
gleamed many bracelets, and in her deep eyes was the look 
of one who glimpses the future and fears it not. 

Slowly they advanced up the aisle, and halted before the 
altar, a picturesque procession; the grave, dignified English- 
man, who now and again cast adoring glances at his girlish 
bride, of an alien forest race; the old Chief of a savage 
tribe, in his gay ceremonial trappings and head-dress; the 
two stalwart, bronzed young braves, keenly interested in 
this great event in their sister's life, all in a strange com- 
mingling of Old World and New, auguring good for the 
future of both Indians and colonists. 

The minister of the colony repeated the simple service, 
and Lady Rebecca, in her pretty but imperfect English, 
repeated her marriage vows and accepted the wedding-ring 
of civihzed races as calmly as if she had not been by birth 
a free forest creature. Then, the service ended, down the 
aisle, in the flickering sunlight, passed the procession, and 
there at the chapel door, surrounded by the great forest 
trees which had been her Hfelong comrades, and with the 
wide sky spreading over her in blue benediction, we have a 
last glimpse of the "little romp," for Pocahontas, the In- 
dian maiden, had become Lady Rebecca, wife of John Rolfe, 
the Englishman. 

Three years later Pocahontas, for so we still find it in our 
hearts to call her, visited England with her husband and 
little son Thomas, to see with her own eyes that land across 
the sea where her husband had been brought up, and of 
which she had heard such wonderful tales. One can well 
imagine the wonder of the girl of the forest when she found 
herself out of sight of land, on the uncharted ocean of which 
she had only skirted the shores before, and many a night she 

33 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

stole from her cabin during that long voyage to watch the 
mysterious sea in its majestic swell, and the star-sown 
heavens, as the ship moved slowly on to its destination. 

London, too, was a revelation to her with its big build- 
ings, its surging crowds of white men, its marks of civiliza- 
tion everywhere, and, girl of the outdoors that she had ever 
been, her presentation at Court, with all that went before 
and after of the frivolities and conventionalities of city life, 
must have been a still greater marvel to her. But the 
greatest surprise of all awaited her. One day at a public 
reception a new-comer was announced, and without warn- 
ing she found herself face to face with that Captain of her 
heart's youthful devotion! There was a moment's silence, 
a strained expression in the young wife's dark eyes, then 
Captain John Smith bent over the hand of John Rolfe's 
wife with the courtly deference he had given in Virginian 
days to the httle Indian girl who was his loyal friend. 

"They told me you were dead!" 

It was Pocahontas who with quivering lips broke the 
silence, then without waiting for a reply she left the room 
and was not seen for hours. When she again met and talked 
with the brave Captain, she was as composed as usual, 
and no one could say how deeply her heart was touched to 
see again the friend of her girlhood days. Perhaps the un- 
expected sight of him brought with it a wave of home- 
sickness for the land of her birth and days of care-free hap- 
piness, perhaps she felt a stab of pain that the man to 
whom she had given so much had not sent her a message 
on leaving the country, but had let her believe the rumor 
of his death — perhaps the heart of Pocahontas was still 
loyal to her first love, devoted wife and mother though she 
was. Whatever may have been the truth. Lady Rebecca 
was proud and calm in the presence of the Captain after 
that first moment, and had many conversations with him 

34 



POCAHONTAS 

which increased his admiration for the gracious forest 
Princess, now a lady of distinction in his own land. 

The cUmate of England did not agree with Pocahontas, 
her health failed rapidly, and in the hope that a return 
to Virginia would save her life, her husband took passage 
for home. But it was too late; after a sickness of only a 
few hours, she died, and John Rolfe was left without the 
vivid presence which had been his blessing and his joy. 

Pocahontas was buried at Gravesend on the 21st of 
March, 161 7, and as night fell, and John Rolfe tossed on a 
bed of anguished memories, it is said that a man muffled in 
a great cloak stole through the darkness and knelt beside 
the new-made grave with bowed head and clasped hands. 

It was Captain Smith who came to offer reverent tribute 
to the girl who had given him so much, asking nothing in 
return, a girl of savage lineage, yet of noble character and 
great charm, whose blossoming into the flower of civiliza- 
tion had no parallel. Alone there, in the somber night, the 
silent figure knelt — the brave Captain of her loyal devotion 
paying tardy homage to Pocahontas, the girl of the Vir- 
ginia forest, the white man's steadfast friend. 
4 



DOROTHY QUINCY: THE GIRL OF COLONIAL 

DAYS WHO HEARD THE FIRST GUN 

FIRED FOR INDEPENDENCE 

A SMALL, shapely foot clad in silken hose and satin 
slipper of palest gray was thrust from under flowing 
petticoats of the same pale shade, as Dorothy Quincy stepped 
daintily out of church on a Sabbath Day in June after 
attending divine service. 

John Hancock, also coming from church, noted the small 
foot with interest, and his keen eye traveled from the 
slipper to its owner's lovely face framed in a gray bonnet, 
in the depths of which nestled a bunch of rosebuds. From 
that moment Hancock's fate as a man was as surely settled 
as was his destiny among patriots when the British seized 
his sloop, the Liberty. 

But all that belongs to a later part of our story, and we 
must first turn back the pages of history and become better 
acquainted with that young person whose slippered foot so 
diverted a man's thoughts from the sermon he had heard 
preached on that Lord's Day in June. 

Pretty Dorothy was the youngest daughter of Edmund 
Quincy, one of a long line of that same name, who were 
directly descended from Edmund Quincy, pioneer, who 
came to America in 1628. Seven years later the town of 
Boston granted him land in the town that was afterward 
known as Braintree, Massachusetts, where he built the 
mansion that became the home of succeeding generations 

36 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

of Quincys, from whom the North End of the town was 
later named. 

As his father had been before him, 'Dorothy's father was 
a judge, and he spent a part of each year in his home on 
Summer Street, Boston, pursuing his profession. There in 
the Summer Street home Dorothy was born on the tenth 
of May, 1747, the youngest of ten children. Evidently she 
was sent to school at an early age, and gave promise of a 
quick mind even then, for in a letter written by Judge 
Quincy, from Boston to his wife in the country, he writes: 

Daughter Dolly looks very Comfortable, and has gone to School, 
where she seems to be very high in her Mistresses' graces. 

But the happiest memories of Dorothy's childhood and 
early girlhood were not of Boston, but of months spent in 
the rambhng old mansion at Quincy, which, although it 
had been remodeled by her grandfather, yet retained its 
quaint charm, and boasted more than one secret passage and 
cupboard, as well as a "haunted chamber" without which 
no house of the period was complete. 

There we find the child romping across velvety lawns, 
picking posies in the box-bordered garden, drinking water 
crystal clear drawn from the old well, and playing many a 
prank and game in the big, roomy home which housed such 
a lively flock of young people. Being the baby of the 
family, it was natural that Dorothy should be a great pet, 
not only of her brothers and sisters, but of their friends, 
especially those young men — some of whom were later the 
principal men of the Province — who were attracted to the 
old mansion by Judge Quincy's charming daughters. So 
persistent was httle Dolly's interest in her sisters' friends, 
that it became a jest among them that he who would woo 
and win fascinating Esther, sparkling Sarah, or the equally 
lovely Elizabeth or Katherine Quincy, must first gain the 

37 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

good-will of the little girl who was so much In evidence, 
many times when the adoring swain would have preferred 
to see his lady love alone. Dorothy used to tell laughingly 
in later years of the rides she took on the shoulders of Jona- 
than Sewall, who married Esther Quincy, of the many small 
gifts and subtle devices used by other would-be suitors as 
bribes either to enlist the child's sympathies in gaining their 
end, or as a reward for her absence at some interesting and 
sentimental crisis. 

Mrs. Quincy, who before her marriage was Elizabeth 
Wendall, of New York, was in full sympathy with her light- 
hearted, lively family of boys and girls. Although the 
household had for its deeper inspiration those Christian 
principles which were the governing factors in family life 
of the colonists, and prayers were offered morning and 
night by the assembled family, while the Sabbath was 
kept strictly as a day for church-going and quiet reflection, 
yet the atmosphere of the home was one of hospitable 
welcome. This made it a popular gathering-place not only 
for the young people of the neighborhood, but also for more 
than one youth who came from the town of Boston, ten 
miles away, attracted by the bevy of girls in the old mansion. 

Judge Quincy was not only a devout Christian and a 
respected member of the community, he was also a fine 
linguist. He was so well Informed on many subjects that, 
while he was by birth and tradition a Conservative, giving 
absolute loyalty to the mother country, and desirous of obey- 
ing her slightest dictate, yet he was so much more broad- 
minded than many of his party that he welcomed in his 
home even those admirers of his daughters who were deter- 
mined to resist what they termed the unjust commands of 
the English Government. Among these patriots-to-be who 
came often to the Quincy home was John Adams, in later 
days the second President of the United States, and who was 

38 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

a boy of old Braintree and a comrade of John Hancock, 
whose future history was to be closely linked with the new 
and independent America. Hancock was, at the time of his 
first visit to the old Quincy mansion, a brilliant young man, 
drawn to the Judge's home by an overwhelming desire to 
see more of pretty Dorothy, whose slippered foot stepping 
from the old meeting-house had roused his interest. Up to 
the time when he began to come to the house, Httle Dorothy 
was still considered a child by her brothers and sisters, 
her aims and ambitions were laughed at, if she voiced 
them, and she was treated as the family pet and plaything 
rather than a girl rapidly blossoming into very beautiful 
womanhood. 

As she saw one after another of her sisters become en- 
gaged to the man of her choice, watched the happy bustle 
of preparation in the household, then took part in the wed- 
ding festivities, and saw the bride pass out of the old man- 
sion to become mistress of a home of her own, Dorothy was 
quick to perceive the important part played by man in a 
woman's life, and, young as she was, she felt within herself 
that power of fascination which was to be hers to so great 
a degree in the coming years. Dorothy had dark eyes 
which were wells of feeling when she was deeply moved, 
her hair was velvet smooth, and also dark, and the play of 
feelings grave and gay which Hghted up her mobile face 
when in conversation was a constant charm to those who 
knew the vivacious girl. When she first met John Han- 
cock she had won an enviable popularity by reason of her 
beauty and grace, and was admired and sought after even 
more than her sisters had been; yet no compliments or 
admiration spoiled her sweet naturalness or her charm of 
manner. 

In those days girls married when they were very young, 
but Dorothy withstood all the adoration which was poured 

39 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

at her feet beyond the time when she might naturally have 
chosen a husband, because her standards were so high that 
not one of her admirers came near to satisfying them. But 
in her heart there was an Ideal Man who had come to oc- 
cupy the first place in her affection. 

As she had sat by her father's side, night after night, 
listening while John Adams spoke with hot enthusiasm of 
his friend John Hancock, the boy of Braintree, now a rising 
young citizen of Boston, the resolute advocate of justice for 
the colonies, who stood unflinchingly against the demands 
of the mother country, where he thought them unfair, — the 
conversation had roused her enthusiasm for this unknown 
hero, until she silently erected an altar within her heart to 
this ideal of manly virtues. 

Then John Hancock came to the old mansion to seek the 
girl who had attracted his attention on that Sabbath Day 
in June, little dreaming that in those conversations which 
Dorothy had heard between her father and John Adams 
she had pieced together a complete biography of her Hero. 
She knew that in 1737, when the Reverend John Hancock 
was minister of the First Church in the North Precinct of 
Braintree (afterward Quincy), he had made the following 
entry in the parish register of births: 

John Hancock, my son, January 16, 1737. 

Dorothy also knew that there in the simple parsonage 
the minister's son grew up, and together with his brother 
and sister enjoyed the usual life of a child in the countrj^. 
When he was seven years old his father died, leaving very 
little money for the support of the widow and three children. 
Thomas Hancock, his uncle, was at that time the richest 
merchant in Boston, and had also married a daughter of 
a prosperous bookseller who was heir to no small fortune 
herself. The couple being childless, at the death of John 

40 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

Hancock's father they adopted the boy, who was at once 
taken from the simple parsonage to Thomas Hancock's 
mansion on Beacon Hill, which must have seemed like a 
fairy palace to the minister's son, as he "climbed the grand 
steps and entered the paneled hall with its broad staircase, 
carved balusters, and a chiming clock surmounted with 
carved figures, gilt with burnished gold." There were also 
portraits of dignitaries on the walls of the great drawing- 
room, which were very impressive in their lace ruffles and 
velvet costumes of the period, and many articles of furniture 
of which the country boy did not even know the names. 

As a matter of course, he was sent to the Boston Public 
Latin School, and later to Harvard College, from which he 
graduated on July 17, 1754, when he was seventeen years 
old — at a time when pretty Dorothy Quincy was a child 
of seven. 

From the time of his adoption of his nephew, Thomas 
Hancock had determined to have him as his successor in 
the shipping business he had so successfully built up, and 
so, fresh from college, the young man entered into the busi- 
ness life of Boston, and as the adopted son of a rich and 
influential merchant, was sought after by mothers with 
marriageable daughters, and by the daughters themselves, 
to whose charms he was strangely indifferent. 

For six years he worked faithfully and with a good judg- 
ment that pleased his uncle, while at the same time he took 
part in the amusements of the young people of Boston who 
belonged to the wealthy class, and who copied their diver- 
sions from those in vogue among young folk in London. 
The briUiant and fine-looking young man was in constant 
demand for riding, hunting, and skating parties, or often 
in winter for a sleigh-ride to some country tavern, followed 
by supper and a dance; or in summer for an excursion down 
the harbor, a picnic on the islands, or a tea-party in the 

41 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

country and a homeward drive by moonlight. Besides 
these gaieties there were frequent musters of miUtia, of which 
Hancock was a member, and he was very fond of shooting 
and fishing; so with work and play he was more than busy 
until he was twenty-three years old. Then his uncle sent 
him to London to give him the advantages of travel and of 
minghng with "foreign lords of trade and finance," and 
also to gain a knowledge of business conditions in England. 
And so, in 1760, young Hancock arrived in London, where 
he found "old Europe passing into the modern. Victory 
had followed the English flag in every quarter of the globe, 
and a new nation was beginning to evolve out of chaos in 
the American wilderness, which was at that time England's 
most valuable dependency." 

While he was in London George the Second died, and his 
grandson succeeded to the throne. The unwonted sight of 
the pomp and splendor of a royal funeral was no slight 
event in the life of the young colonist, and the keen eyes of 
John Hancock lost no detail of the imposing ceremonial. 
He wrote home: 

I am very busy in getting myself mourning upon the Occasion of the 
Death of his late Majesty King George the ad, to which every person of 
any Note here Conforms, even to the deepest Mourning. . . . Everything 
here is now very dull. All Plays are stopt and no diversions are going 
forward, so that I am at a loss how to dispose of myself. . . . 

A later letter is of interest as it shows something of the 
habits of a wealthy young man of the period. "Johnny," 
as his uncle aflPectionately calls him, writes: 

I observe in your Letter you mention a Circumstance in Regard to 
my dress. I hope it did not Arise from your hearing I was too Extrava- 
gant that way, which I think they cant Tax me with. At same time I am 
not Remarkable for the Plainness of my Dress, upon proper Occasions 
I dress as Genteel as anyone, and cant say I am without Lace. ... I find 
money some way or other goes very fast, but I think I can Reflect it has 

42 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

been spent with Satisfaction, and to my own honor. ... I endeavor to be 
in Character in all I do, and in all my Expences which are pretty large I 
have great Satisfaction in the Reflection of their being incurred in Hon- 
orable Company and to my Advantage. 

Throughout his Hfe good fortune followed John Han- 
cock in matters small and great, and it was a piece of char- 
acteristic good luck that he should have been able to remain 
to see the new King's coronation. He was also presented 
at Court, as a representative young colonist of high social 
standing, and was given a snuff-box by His Majesty as a 
token of his good-will to one of his subjects from across 
the sea. 

Before leaving for home he learned all he could in re- 
gard to the commercial relations between England and her 
colonies, and after hearing the great orator Pitt make a 
stirring speech against unjust taxation, he realized how 
much more daring in word and act were some loyal British 
subjects than the colonists would have thought possible. 
Doubtless to Pitt the young patriot-to-be owed his first in- 
spiration to serve the colonies, though it bore no fruit for 
many months. 

October of 1761 found young Hancock again in Boston, 
and a year later he was taken into partnership with his 
uncle. This gave him a still greater vogue among the 
Boston belles who admired him for his strength of char- 
acter and for his fine appearance, as he was noted for being 
the best dressed young man in Boston at that time. It is 
said that "his taste was correct, his judgment of quality 
unsurpassed, and his knowledge of fashions in London aided 
by recent residence there." We are told that "a gold-laced 
coat of broadcloth, red, blue or violet; a white-satin waist- 
coat embroidered; velvet breeches, green, lilac or blue; 
white-silk stockings and shoes flashing with buckles of silver 
or gold; linen trimmed with lace," made the prosperous young 

43 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

merchant outshine others of his position, "and made it 
appear that by birth at least he belonged to the wealthy 
and fashionably conservative class." 

His uncle was indeed such a strong Conservative that 
he was unwilling to have his adopted son show any leaning 
to the radical party. But when on the first of August, 1764, 
Thomas Hancock died of apoplexy, leaving his Beacon Hill 
mansion and fifty thousand dollars to his widow, Lydia 
Hancock, and to John his warehouses, ships, and the residue 
of his estate, in the twinkling of an eye the young man 
became a prominent factor in the business world of the day, 
as the sole owner of an extensive export and import trade. 
But more important to him than the fortune which he had 
inherited was the knowledge that he was now at hberty 
to speak and act in accordance with his own feelings in 
regard to matters about which his views were slowly but 
surely changing. 

He was now twenty-seven years old, and on paying a 
flying visit to his friend John Adams, in the home of his 
early childhood, attended divine service in his father's old 
church, and thrilled at the glimpse he had of Judge Quincy's 
youngest daughter, Dorothy, demurely leaving the meeting- 
house. Dolly was then seventeen years of age, and as 
lovely in her girlish beauty as any rose that ever bloomed, 
and John Hancock's feeling of interest in her was far too 
keen to allow that glimpse to be his last. 

He and John Adams visited the Quincy homestead, and 
young Hancock listened respectfully to the Judge's reminis- 
cences of his father; but at the same time he watched pretty 
Dorothy, who flitted in and out of the room, giving no hint 
of her emotion at having an opportunity to listen to the 
deep voice and note the clear-cut features and brilliant eyes 
of the Hero of her dreams. She only cast her eyes down 
demurely, glancing from under her long lashes now and 

44 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

again, when a remark was addressed to her. She was quick 
to see that her father, while as cordial to his visitor as good 
breeding demanded, yet wished him to feel that he was not 
in sympathy with the radical views now openly expressed 
by the young Boston merchant. Judge Quincy, as we have 
seen, was a broad-minded, patriotic man, yet being by birth 
a staunch Conservative, he felt it his duty to show the 
j^ounger generation what real loyalty to the mother country 
meant, and that it did not include such rebellion against 
her commands as they were beginning to express. How- 
ever, he chatted pleasantly with Hancock and his friend 
Adams, and when they took their leave, Hancock was in- 
vited both to call on the family in Boston and to return 
to the Quincy homestead. Dorothy seconded the invita- 
tion with a momentary Hfting of her eyes to his, then be- 
came demure, but in the glance that passed between them 
something was given and taken which was to last for all 
time, and to add its deepest joy to the future life of pretty 
Dorothy. 

It was certainly love at first sight for John Hancock, 
and to the young girl his love soon became the one worth- 
while thing in life. 

Not many months after that first visit of John Hancock's 
to Dorothy's home, he paid Judge Quincy a formal visit in 
Boston and asked for the hand of his youngest daughter in 
marriage. As a matter of course, the Judge was flattered, 
for who was a more eligible match than this rich and 
handsome young Bostonian? On the other hand, he was 
sorry to include one of England's rebellious subjects in his 
family, and he declared so plainly. John Hancock was 
polite but positive, as he was about everything, and let it 
be clearly understood that no objection to his suit would 
make any difference in its final outcome. He and Dorothy 
loved each other — that was all that really mattered. He 

45 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

sincerely hoped that her father would come to approve of 
the match, for he would ever consider, he said, Dorothy's 
happiness before his own. But he clearly stated that he 
should stand by those words and deeds of the radical party 
which he beheved best for the colonies, despite any effort 
which might be made to change any of his opinions; also 
he was going to marry Dorothy. Evidently his determina- 
tion won the Judge's consent, and in giving it he smothered 
his objections, for there was no further opposition to the 
match, and no courtship ever gave clearer evidence of an 
intense devotion on both sides than that of Hancock and 
Dorothy, who, being ten years younger than her Hero, 
looked up to him as to some great and superior being worthy 
of her heart's supreme devotion. 

PoHtical events of vital importance to the colonies hap- 
pened in swift succession, and Dorothy's Hancock quickly 
took his place in the front rank of those who were to be 
the backbone in the colonies' struggle for liberty, although 
at that time his activity against English injustice was 
largely due to his wish to protect his own business in- 
terests. In 1765 the Stamp Act was passed, and John 
Hancock openly denounced it and declared he would not 
use the stamps. 

"I will not be made a slave without my consent," he 
said. "Not a man in England, in proportion to estate, 
pays the tax that I do." 

And he stood by that declaration, becoming generally 
recognized as a man of ability and of great power, on 
whom pubHc duties and responsibihties could be placed 
with assurance that they would be successfully carried 
out. While he was deeply occupied with colonial affairs 
Dorothy Quincy was busy in her home with those duties 
and diversions which formed the greater part of a young 
woman's daily Hfe in those days, but always in spirit she 

46 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

was with her lover, and she thrilled with pride at each new 
proof of his fearlessness and growing patriotism. 

In September, 1768, when it was rumored that troops 
had been ordered from HaUfax, in an attempt of England 
to quell the spirit of independence rife among her colonists, 
Samuel Adams, John Hancock, John Adams, and James 
Otis waited upon the Governor to ask if the report were 
true, and to request him to call a special meeting of the 
Assembly. He declined to do it, and a meeting of protest 
was held in Faneuil Hall, with representatives from ninety- 
six towns present, at which meeting it was resolved that 
"they would peril their lives and their fortunes to defend 
their rights": "That money cannot be granted nor a 
standing army kept up in the province but by their own free 
consent." 

The storm was gathering, and ominous clouds hung low 
over the town of Boston on a day soon after the meeting 
in Faneuil Hall, when seven armed vessels from Hahfax 
brought troops up the harbor to a wharf at which they 
landed, and tramped by the sullen crowd of spectators with 
colors flying, drums beating — as if entering a conquered 
city. Naturally the inhabitants of Boston would give them 
no aid in securing quarters, so they were obliged to camp 
on the Common, near enough to Dorothy Quincy's home on 
Summer Street to annoy her by the noise of their morning 
drills, and to make her realize in what peril her lover's life 
would be if he became more active in pubHc affairs at this 
critical period. 

If any stimulus to John Hancock's growing patriotism 
was needed it was given on the tenth of June, when one of 
his vessels, a new sloop, the Liberty, arrived in port with a 
cargo of Madeira wine, the duty on which was much larger 
than on other wines. "The collector of the port was so in- 
quisitive about the cargo, that the crew locked him below 

47 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

while it was swung ashore and a false bill of entry made 
out, after an evasive manner into which importers had 
fallen of late. Naturally enough, when the collector was 
released from the hold, he reported the outrage to the com- 
mander of one of the ships which had brought troops from 
Halifax, and he promptly seized the Liberty and moved it 
under his ship's guns to prevent its recapture by Bostoni- 
ans." This was one of the first acts of violence in the days 
preceding the struggle for Independence in Massachusetts. 
While John Hancock was so fully occupied with public 
matters, he yet found time to see his Dolly frequently, and 
her sorrow was his when in 1769 Mrs. Quincy died, and 
Dorothy, after having had her protecting love and care for 
twenty-two years, was left motherless. The young girl 
was no coward, and her brave acceptance of the sorrow won 
her lover even more completely than before, while his 
Aunt Lydia, who had become deeply attached to pretty 
Dorothy, and was eager to have her adopted son's romance 
end happily, lavished much care and affection on the girl 
and insisted that she visit her home on Beacon Hill fre- 
quently. Possibly, too, Aunt Lydia may have been un- 
easy lest Judge Quincy, left without the wise counsels of 
his wife, might insist that his daughter sever her connec- 
tion with such a radical as Hancock had become. In any 
case, after her mother's death, Dorothy spent much of her 
time with her lover's Aunt Lydia, and Hancock was much 
envied for the charms of his vivacious bride-to-be. In fact, 
it has been said that "not to have been attracted to Dorothy 
Quincy would have argued a heart of steel," of which there 
are but few. To her lover she was all and more than 
woman had ever been before, in charm and grace and 
beauty, and he who among men was noted for his stern 
resolve and unyielding demeanor was as wax in the hands 
of the young woman, who ruled him with gentle tyranny. 

48 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

To Dorothy her lover was handsome and brilHant beyond 
even the Hero of her girHsh dreams; her love was too sa- 
cred for expression, even to him who was its rightful pos- 
sessor. He appealed to her in a hundred ways, she de- 
lighted in his "distinguished presence, his inborn courtesy, 
his scrupulous toilets"; she adored him for "his devotion 
to those he loved, his unusual generosity to friends and in- 
feriors," and she thrilled at the thought of his patriotism, 
his rapid advancement. And if, as has been said, crowds 
were swayed by his magnetism, what wonder that it touched 
and captivated Dorothy Quincy, the object of his heart's 
deepest devotion? 

On the fifth of March, 1770, British soldiers fired on a 
crowd in the streets of Boston, and the riot that ensued, 
in which the killing of six and the injury to a half-dozen 
more, was dignified by the name of a "Massacre." Blood 
was now at boiling-point, and the struggle between the 
mother country and her colonists had commenced. Pri- 
vate meetings were beginning to be held for public action, 
and John Adams, Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and 
Josiah Quincy, a nephew of Dorothy's father, and an ardent 
behever in American liberty, were among the leading spirits 
who took notice of every infringement of rights on the 
part of the government and its agents. In the House of 
Representatives they originated almost every measure for 
the public good, and the people believed them to be the 
loyal guardians of their rights and privileges. 

John Hancock, who at first had stood out against taxa- 
tion without representation because of his own business 
interests, now stood firmly for American Independence for 
the good of the majority, with httle left of the self-seeking 
spirit which had animated his earlier efforts. Occupied 
as he now was with the many duties incident on a public 
life, it is said he was never too busy to redress a wrong, 

49 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

and never unwilling to give lavishly where there was need, 
and Dorothy Quincy rejoiced as she noted that many meas- 
ures for the good of the country were stamped with her 
lover's name. 

On the very day of the so-called "Boston Massacre" 
Great Britain repealed an Act recently passed which had 
placed a heavy duty on many articles of import. That 
tax was now lifted from all articles except tea, on which it 
was retained, to maintain the right of Parliament to tax 
the colonies, and to show the King's determination to have 
his way. 

"In resistance of this tax the Massachusetts colonists gave 
up drinking their favorite beverage and drank coffee in its 
place. The King, angry at this rebellion against the dic- 
tates of ParHament, refused to hft the tax, and tea was 
shipped to America as if there were no feeling against its 
acceptance. In New York, Philadelphia, and Charleston 
mass-meetings of the people voted that the agents to whom 
it had been shipped should be ordered to resign their offices. 
At Philadelphia the tea-ship was met and sent back to 
England without being allowed to come to anchor. At 
Charleston the tea was landed, but as there was no one 
there to receive it, or pay the duty, it was thrown into a 
damp cellar and left there to spoil. In Boston things were 
managed differently. When the Dartmouth, tea-laden, sailed 
into the harbor, the ship, with two others which soon arrived 
and anchored near the Dartmouth, wrs not allowed to dock." 

A meeting of citizens was hastily called, and a resolution 
adopted that "tea on no account should be allowed to 
land." The tea-ships were guarded by a committee of 
Boston patriots who refused to give permits for the vessels to 
return to England with their cargoes. Then came what has 
been called Boston's "picturesque refusal to pay the. tax." 
As night fell Samuel Adams rose in a mass-meeting and 

50 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

said, "This meeting can do nothing more to save the 
country." As the words fell from his hps there was a shout 
in the street and a group of forty men disguised as "Mo- 
hawks" darted past the door and down to the wharves, 
followed by the people. Rushing on board the tea-ships, 
the disguised citizens set themselves to cleaning the vessels 
of their cargoes. As one of them afterward related: "We 
mounted the ships and made tea in a trice. This done, I 
mounted my team and went home, as an honest man should." 

Twihght was gathering when the Indian masqueraders 
began their work, and it was nearly three hours later when 
their task was done. Boston Harbor was a great teapot, 
with the contents of three hundred and forty-two chests 
broken open and their contents scattered on the quiet 
water. A sharp watch was kept that none of it should be 
stolen, but a few grains were shaken out of a shoe, which 
may be seen to-day in a glass jar in Memorial Hall, Boston. 
And this was the famous "Boston Tea-Party"! 

Men's passions were now aroused to fever heat, and the 
actions of the patriots were sharply resented by the con- 
servatives who upheld the government, while the radicals 
were fighting for the rights of the people. In all the acts 
of overt rebellion with which John Hancock's name was 
constantly connected he was loyally and proudly upheld by 
his Dorothy, who, despite her inborn coquetry, daily became 
better fitted to be the wife of a man such as John Hancock. 

But though she stood by him so bravely in all his under- 
takings, and would not have had him recede one step from 
the stand he had taken, yet there was much to alarm her. 
Because of his connection with the Boston Tea-Party, and 
other acts of rebellion, the soldiers of the crown had distrib- 
uted royalist hand-bills broadcast, with this heading: 

"TO THE SOLDIERS OF HIS MAJESTY'S TROOPS IN BOSTON" 
5 51 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

There followed a list of the authors of the rebellion, among 
whom were Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and Josiah 
Quincy. The hand-bill also announced that *'it was prob- 
able that the King's standard would soon be erected," and 
continued: *'The friends of our king and country and of 
America hope and expect it from you soldiers the instant 
rebellion happens, that you will put the above persons im- 
mediately to the sword, destroy their houses and plunder 
their effects. It is just they should be the first victims to 
the mischiefs they have brought upon us." 

Reason enough for Hancock's Dorothy to be apprehen- 
sive, beneath her show of bravery! 

In January, 1775, the patriots made an effort to show 
that they were still loyal subjects, for they sent a petition 
from the Continental Congress to the King, wherein they 
asked "but for peace, liberty and safety," and stated that 
"your royal authority over us, and our connection with 
Great Britain, we shall always carefully and zealously en- 
deavor to support and maintain," 

Despite this the oppressions increased, and the persistent 
roughness of the British troops continued unchecked. 
In March an inhabitant of Billerica, Massachusetts, was 
tarred and feathered by a party of his majesty's soldiers. 
A remonstrance was sent to General Gage, the king's chosen 
representative in the colony, in which was this clause: 

"We beg. Your Excellency that the breach, now too 
wide, between Great Britain and this province may not, by 
such brutality of the troops, still be increased. ... If it 
continues, we shall hereafter use a different style from that 
of petition and complaint." 

In reply from London came the news that seventy-eight 
thousand guns and bayonets were on their way to America. 
Also came a report that orders had gone out to arrest John 
Hancock, William Otis, and six other head men of Boston. 

52 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

The informant, a friend of Hancock's, added: "My heart 
aches for Mr. Hancock. Send off expresses immediately 
to tell him that they intend to seize his estate, and have his 
fineiliouse for General. . . ." 

April of 1775 came, and the Provincial Congress met at 
Concord, Massachusetts, and took upon itself the power to 
make and carry out laws. Immediately General Gage 
issued a proclamation stating that the Congress was "an 
unlawful assembly, tending to subvert government and to 
lead directly to sedition, treason, and rebellion. 

"And yet even in the face of such an ominous outlook the 
indefatigable Massachusetts patriots continued to struggle 
for their ideal of independence. John Adams, himself a 
patriot of the highest class, asserted that Samuel Adams, 
John Hancock, and James Otis were the three most impor- 
tant characters of the day, and Great Britain knew it. 
Certainly all four men were feared in the mother country, 
and Hancock's independence of the government brought 
several suits against him." Like those of his co-workers 
for freedom from tyranny, his nerves were now strung to 
the highest tension, and he spent many a sleepless night 
planning how best to achieve his high purposes and grim 
resolves, while his love for pretty Dorothy was the one 
green spot in the arid desert of colonial strife. 

Boston was no longer a safe place for those who could 
change it for a more peaceful place of residence. Judge 
Quincy, who had been keeping a close watch over his 
own business aflPairs, now decided to leave for Lancaster, 
where his married daughter, Mrs. Greenleaf, lived. All 
homes were completely disorganized, and by the time 
the Judge decided to leave most of his friends had already 
gone, taking their household goods with them out of harm's 
way. All social Hfe was ended, and it was indeed a suitable 
prelude to a grim period of American history. 

S3 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

When the Judge decided to take refuge in Lancaster, 
the question was, should Dorothy go, too? Her lover was 
in Concord, where the Provincial Congress was in session. 
Knowing the condition of affairs in Boston, he had not re- 
turned to his home during the intermissions of the session, 
finding it more convenient to stay in Concord and spend 
his Sundays in Lexington, where he and John Adams were 
warmly welcomed at the home of the Rev. Jonas Clark, a 
Hancock cousin. 

Now, when Hancock heard of Judge Quincy's plan to 
leave Boston for Lancaster, he wrote immediately to his 
Aunt Lydia and made an appeal calculated to touch a much 
more stony heart than hers. Would she take his Dolly 
under her protection until the state of colonial affairs should 
become more peaceful? Boston was no place for a woman 
who could be out of it; but on the other hand, neither was 
a town as far away as Lancaster a suitable retreat for a girl 
with a lover who might get only occasional glimpses of her 
there. Would his dear aunt please call on Judge Quincy, 
and, after putting the matter squarely before him, try to 
bring his Dolly away to Lexington with her? The Rev. Mr. 
Clark would welcome them as warmly as he and Adams 
had been received, and give them a comfortable home as 
long as necessary. Would his aunt not do this for him? 
As a final appeal he added that if General Gage should carry 
out his intention of seizing Adams and himself, he might 
have a few more chances to see the girl he loved. 

Aunt Lydia was quick in her response. Of course she 
would do as he wished. It would be far better for the 
motherless girl to be under her protection at this time than 
with any one else, and she could understand perfectly her 
nephew's desire to be under the same roof even for a brief 
time with his dear Dolly. She would see the Judge im- 
mediately. 

54 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

At once her stately coach was ordered out, and soon 
it rolled up before the Quincy door to set down Aunt Lydia, 
intent on achieving her end. And she did. Although the 
Judge was not altogether pleased with the idea of being 
separated from Dorothy, he saw the wisdom of the plan 
and assented to it. Dorothy, with a girl's light-hearted- 
ness at the prospect of a change, especially one which meant 
seeing her lover, hastily packed up enough clothing for use 
during a brief visit. Then she said an affectionate farewell 
to her father, little dreaming what an eventful separation 
it was to be, and rode away by the side of Aunt Lydia, who 
was delighted that she had been able to so successfully 
manage the Judge, and that she was to have cheerful 
Dorothy for a companion during days of dark depression. 

To Lexington they went, and as John Hancock had pre- 
dicted, the Rev. Mr. Clark gave them a cordial welcome. 
Hancock was there to greet them, and with great satisfac- 
tion the elder woman saw the lovers' rapturous meeting, and 
knew that her diplomacy had brought this joy to them. 

When the excitement of the meeting had somewhat sub- 
sided, they talked long and earnestly of the critical situa- 
tion, and Dorothy, with her hand clasped close in her 
lover's, heard with sudden terror of a rumor that General 
Gage intended to seize Adams and Hancock at the earhest 
opportunity. But roses bloomed in her cheeks again as 
she declared, proudly: "I have no fear! You will be 
clever enough to evade them. No cause as worthy as yours 
will have as a reward for its champion such a fate as to 
be captured!" 

Seeing her flashing eyes and courageous thrusting aside 
of possibiHties, that he might not count her a coward, John 
Hancock loved her better than before, and tenderly raised 
her hand to his lips with a simple: "God bless you, dear. 
I hope you may be right!" 

55 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

And now, in quiet Lexington, Dorothy and Aunt Lydia 
occupied themselves with such daily tasks as they were 
able to accomplish in the minister's home, and the girl 
was bewildering in her varied charms as John Hancock 
saw them displayed in daily hfe during their brief but 
precious meetings. Dorothy enjoyed an occasional letter 
from a cousin, Helena Bayard, who was still in Boston, and 
who gave lively accounts of what was happening there. 

As Mrs. Bayard lived in a boarding-house, she saw many 
persons who knew nothing of her relatives, and one day, 
after returning from a visit, she found the parlor full of 
boarders, who eagerly asked her if she had heard the news. 
She said she had not, and in a letter to Dorothy later, she 
gives this spicy account of what she heard: 

I was told that Linsee was coming, and ten thousand troops, which 
was glorious news for the Congress. Mr. Hancock was next brought on 
the carpet, and as the company did not suspect I had the least acquain- 
tance with him, I can't think they meant to afFront me. 

However, as Mr. Hancock has an elegant house and well situated, and 
this will always be a garrison town, it will do exceedingly well for a fort, 
... "I wonder how Miss . . . will stand affected? I think he defers marry- 
ing until he returns from England." At this speech I saw a wink given, 
and all was hush! — myself as hush as the grave, for reasons. "Mr. Han- 
cock has a number of horses. Perhaps he would be glad to dispose of 
them, as the officers are buying up the best horses in town" — Mrs. Bay- 
ard, don't look so dull! You will be taken the greatest care of! Thought 
I, — if you knew my heart, you would have the most reason to look dull. 
However, a little time will decide that. 

I am, you will say, wicked, but I wish the small-pox would spread. 
Dolly, I could swell my letter into a balloon, but lest I should tire you, 
I will beg my sincere regards to Mr. Hancock, and beg the favor of a line 
from my dear Dolly, 

Your affectionate Coz 

Helena Bayard. 

Dorothy's eyes flashed as she read this, and laying it 
down she exclaimed: "We will see whether the British come 
off victorious or not! If I mistake not, there is more ability 

56 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

in the finger-tip of John Hancock than in those of all the 
generals in the English army. You will be taken the 
greatest care of, indeed — We shall see what we shall see!" 
with which sage remark pretty Dolly, head held high, walked 
out of the room and gave vent to her feelings in vigorous 
exercise. 

The issue was to be confronted sooner than they knew, 
and it was peaceful Lexington where the first alarm of war 
sounded. 

According to advice, a messenger had been sent to Con- 
cord to warn Hancock of his possible danger, but neither he 
nor Adams attached much importance to the report, after 
their first alarm was over, and they were enjoying the quiet 
village life of Lexington with the two women guests at the 
parsonage, when on the eighteenth of April, General Gage 
really did order a force to march on Concord, not so much 
to seize the few military supplies stored there, as to capture 
the rebellious enemies of the crown. 

Just how a small group of men in Boston, caHing them- 
selves the "Sons of Liberty," who had constituted themselves 
a volunteer committee to watch over the movements of the 
enemy, knew of the plan of the British to march to Con- 
cord, and on the way to arrest Hancock and Samuel Adams, 
will never be known. It is enough to know that they had 
received the information, and knew that the British were 
determined not to have a report of the march reach the 
enemy until it had been successfully accomphshed. The 
question was how to carry the news to Lexington and Con- 
cord ahead of the British troops. There was no time to 
waste in lengthy discussions, and in a very short time Paul 
Revere was ready for his historic ride. The signals agreed 
on before affairs had reached this climax were: if the 
British went out by water, two lanterns would be swung in 
the North Church steeple; if they went by land, one would 

57 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

be shown, and a friend of Paul Revere's had been chosen 
as the man to set the signal. 

Now, on the night of the eighteenth of April, 1775, two 
lanterns swung high in the historic steeple, and off started 
Paul Revere on the most famous ride in American history. 
As Longfellow has so vividly expressed it: 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonhght, a bulk in the dark, 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; 

That was all! And yet through the gloom and the light 

The fate of a nation was riding that night; 

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight. 

Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

With clank of spur and brave use of whip, on he dashed, 
to waken the country and rouse it to instant action — and 
as he passed through every hamlet heavy sleepers woke at 
the sound of his ringing shout: 

"The Regulars are coming!" 

Then on clattered horse and rider, scattering stones and 
dirt, as the horse's hoofs tore into the ground and his flanks 
were flecked with foam. Midnight had struck when the 
dripping steed and his breathless rider drew up before the 
parsonage where unsuspecting Dorothy and Aunt Lydia 
were sheltered, as well as the two patriots. The house was 
guarded by eight men when Paul Revere dashed up to the 
door, and they cautioned him not to make a noise. 

"Noise!" exclaimed Revere. "You'll have noise enough 
before long. The Regulars are coming out!" 

John Hancock, ever on the alert for any unwonted sounds, 
heard the commotion and recognizing Revere's voice opened 
a window and said: 

"Courier Revere, we are not afraid of you!" 

Revere repeated his startUng news. 
58 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

"Ring the Bell!" commanded Hancock. In a few mo- 
ments the church bell began to peal, according to pre- 
arranged signal, to call men of the town together. All night 
the tones of the clanging bell rang out on the clear air 
and before daylight one hundred and fifty men had mustered 
for defense, strong in their desire for resistance and con- 
fident of the justice of it. 

John Hancock was determined to fight with the men who 
had come together so hurriedly and were so poorly equipped 
for the combat. With a firm hand he cleaned his gun and 
sword and put his accoutrements in order, refusing to 
listen to the plea of Adams that it was not their duty to 
fight, that theirs it was, rather, to safeguard their lives for 
the sake of that cause to which they were so important at 
this critical time. Hancock was deaf to all appeals, until 
Dorothy grasped his hands in hers and forced him to look 
into her eyes: — 

"I have lost my mother," she said; "to lose you, too, 
would be more than I could bear, unless I were giving you 
for my country's good. But you can serve best by Hving 
rather than by courting danger. You must go, and go now!" 

And Hancock went. 

Meanwhile a British officer had been sent in advance of 
the troops to inquire for "Clark's parsonage." By mistake 
he asked for Clark's tavern, which news was brought to 
Hancock as he was debating whether to take Dorothy's ad- 
vice or not. He waited no longer. With Adams he im- 
mediately took refuge in a thickly wooded hill back of the 
parsonage. An hour later Paul Revere returned to the 
house to report that after he left there, with two others, 
he had been captured by British officers. Having answered 
their questions evasively about the whereabouts of the 
patriots, he finally said: "Gentlemen, you have missed 
your aim; the bell's ringing, the town's alarmed. You are 

59 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

all dead men!" This so terrified the officers that, not one 
hundred yards further on, one of them mounted Revere's 
horse and rode off at top speed to give warning to the 
on-coming troops, while Revere went back to report to Han- 
cock and Adams. 

It was evidently unsafe for them to remain so near the 
scene of the struggle, and at dayhght they were ready to 
start for the home of the Rev. Mr. Marrett in Woburn. 
Dorothy and Aunt Lydia were to remain in Lexington, and 
although they had kept well in the background through all 
the excitement of the fateful night. Aunt Lydia now went 
down to the door, not only to see the last of her beloved 
nephew, but to try to speak to some one who could give 
her more definite news of the seven hundred British soldiers 
who had arrived in town and were drawn up in formidable 
array against the motley company of colonists. The Brit- 
ish officers at once commanded the colonists to lay down 
their arms and disperse. Not a single man obeyed. All 
stood in silent defiance of the order. Then the British regu- 
lars poured into the "minute-men" a fatal volley of shots; 
and about that time Aunt Lydia descended to the parson- 
age door, and excited Dorothy threw open her window 
that she might wave to her lover until he was out of sight. 
As she drew back, she saw something whiz through the air 
past her aunt's head, striking the barn door beyond, and 
heard her aunt exclaim: 

"What was that?" 

It was a British bullet, and no mistake! As Dorothy 
told later: "The next thing I knew, two men were being 
brought into the house, one, whose head had been grazed 
by a bullet, insisted that he was dead; but the other, who 
was shot in the arm, behaved better." 

Dorothy Quincy had seen the first shot fired for inde- 
pendence ! 

60 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

Never was there a more gallant resistance of a large and 
well-disciplined enemy force than that shown by the minute- 
men on that day at Lexington, and when at last the British 
retreated under a hot fire from the provincials at whom they 
had sneered, they had lost two hundred and seventy-three, 
killed, wounded, and missing, while the American force 
had lost only ninety-three. 

As soon as the troops were marching on their way to Con- 
cord, a messenger brought Dorothy a penciled note from 
Hancock: "Would she and his aunt come to their hiding- 
place for dinner, and would they bring with them the fine 
salmon which was to have been cooked for dinner at the 
parsonage?" Of course they would — only too eagerly did 
they make ready and allow the messenger to guide them to 
the patriot's place of concealment. There, while the lovers 
enjoyed a tete-a-tete, Adams and Aunt Lydia made the 
feast ready, and they were all about to enjoy it, when a 
man rushed in crying out wildly: 

"The British are coming! The British are coming! My 
wife's in eternity now." 

This was grim news, and there was no more thought of 
feasting. Hurriedly Mr. Marrett made ready and took the 
patriots to a safer hiding-place, in Amos Wyman's house in 
Billerica. There, later in the day, they satisfied their 
appetites as best they could with cold pork and potatoes 
in place of the princely salmon, while Dorothy and Aunt 
Lydia, after eating what they had heart to consume of the 
feast, returned to Parson Clark's home, where they waited 
as quietly as possible until the retreat of the British troops. 
Then Dorothy had the joy of being again clasped in her 
lover's arms — and as he looked questioningly into her dear 
eyes, he could see lines of suffering and of new womanliness 
carved on her face by the anxiety she had experienced dur- 
ing the last twenty-four hours. Then, at a moment when 

6i 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

both were seemingly happiest at being together, came their 
first lovers' quarrel. 

When she had somewhat recovered from the fear of not 
seeing Hancock again, Dorothy announced that she was 
going to Boston on the following day — that she was worried 
about her father, who had not yet been able to leave the 
city, that she must see him. Hancock listened with set lips 
and grim determination: 

"No, madam," he said, "you shall not return as long as 
there is a British bayonet in Boston." 

Quick came the characteristic reply: "Recollect, Mr. 
Hancock, I am not under your control yet! I shall go to 
my father to-morrow." 

Her determination matched his own, and Hancock saw 
no way to achieve his end, yet he had not thought of yield- 
ing. As usual, he turned to Aunt Lydia for advice. She 
wisely suggested retiring, without settling the mooted ques- 
tion, as they were all too tired for sensible reflection on any 
subject. Then, after defiant Dorothy had gone to her 
room, the older woman stole to the girl's bedside, not to 
advise, — oh no! — merely to suggest that there was more 
than one girl waiting to step into Dorothy's place should she 
flout the handsome young patriot. Also, she suggested, 
how terrible it would be if Hancock should be killed, or 
even captured while the girl he worshiped was away from 
his side! There was no reply, and the older woman stole 
from the room without any evidence that she had succeeded 
in her mission. But she smiled to herself the next morning 
when Dorothy announced that she had never had any real 
intention of leaving for Boston, and gracefully acknowl- 
edged to an entranced lover that he had been right, after 
all! 

The next question was, where should the women take 
refuge until the cloud of war should have passed over suffi- 

62 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

ciently to make it safe for them to return to their homes? 
Hancock advised Fairfield, Connecticut, a beautiful town 
where there would be small chance of any danger or dis- 
comfort. His suggestion met with approval, and Mrs. 
Hancock and her pretty ward at once set off for the Con- 
necticut town, while Adams and Hancock journeyed cau- 
tiously toward Worcester, where they were to meet and go 
with other delegates to the Continental Congress at Phila- 
delphia. They were detained at Worcester three days, 
which gave Hancock a chance to see his Dorothy again on 
her way to the new place of refuge. Theirs was a raptur- 
ous though a brief visit together; then the patriots went on 
toward New York, and Dorothy and Aunt Lydia proceeded 
to Fairfield, where they were received in the home of Mr. 
Thaddeus Burr, an intimate friend of the Hancocks, and a 
leading citizen, whose fine colonial house was a landmark 
in the village. 

Judge Quincy, meanwhile, had at last been able to take 
flight from Boston, and after a long, uncomfortable trip, 
had arrived at his daughter's home in Lancaster, where he 
heard that "Daughter Dolly and Hancock had taken din- 
ner ten days before, having driven over from Shirley for 
the purpose." He writes to his son Henry of this, and adds, 
"As I hear, she proceeded with Mrs. Hancock to Fairfield; 
I don't expect to see her till peaceable times are restored." 

The two patriots reached New York safely, and Hancock 
at once wrote to Dorothy: 

New York, Sabbath Eveng, May y, 1775. 
My dear Dolly: — 

I Arrived well, tho' fatigued, at King's Bridge at Fifty Minute after 
Two o'clock yesterday, where I found the Delegates of Massachusetts 
and Connect' with a number of Gentlemen from New York, and a Guard 
of the Troop. I dined and then set out in the Procession for New York, 
— the Carriage of your Humble servant being first in the procession (of 
course). When we Arrived within three Miles of the City, we were Met 

63 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

by the Grenadier Company and Regiment of the City Militia under Arms, 
— Gentlemen in Carriages and on Horseback, and many thousand of 
Persons on foot, the roads fiU'd with people, and the greatest cloud of dust 
I ever saw. In this Situation we Entered the City, and passing thro' 
the Principal Streets of New York amidst the Acclamations of Thousands 
were set down at Mr. Francis's. After Entering the House three Huzzas 
were Given, and the people by degrees dispersed. 

When I got within a mile of the City my Carriage was stopt, and 
Persons appearing with proper Harnesses insisted upon Taking out my 
Horses and Dragging me into and through the City, a Circumstance I 
would not have Taken place on any consideration, not being fond of such 
Parade. 

I beg'd and entreated that they would suspend the Design, and they 
were at last prevail'd upon and I proceeded 

After having Rode so fast and so many Miles, you may well think I 
was much fatigued, but no sooner had I got into the Room of the House 
we were Visited by a great number of Gentlemen of the first Character 
of the City, who took up the Evening. 

About lo o'clock I Sat down to Supper of Fried Oysters &, at ii o'clock 
went to Capt Sear's and Lod'g. Arose at 5 o'clock, went to the House 
first mentioned. Breakfasted, Dress'd and went to Meeting, where I heard 
a most excellent Sermon 

The Grenadier Company of the City is to continue under Arms during 
our stay here and we have a guard of them at our Doors Night and Day. 

This is a sad mortification for the Tories. Things look well here 

I beg you will write me. Do acquaint me every Circumstance 

Relative to that Dear Aunt of Mine; write Lengthy and often 

People move slowly out, they tell me, from Boston 

Is your Father out? As soon as you know, do acquaint me, and send 
me the letters and I will then write him. Pray let me hear from you by 
every post. God bless you, my Dr. Girl, and believe me most Sincerely 
Yours most affectionately 

John Hancock. 

One can fancy the flutter of pride in Dorothy's heart at 
the reading of such honors to her lover, and she settled 
down to await the turn of events with a lighter heart, while 
Hancock and Adams, with the other delegates, went on 
toward Philadelphia, their trip being a triumphal progress 
from start to finish. 

On the ninth of May they arrived at their destination, 
and on the following day the Continental Congress met, 

64 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

when John Hancock was unanimously elected President of 
the Congress. 

While her lover was occupied with matters of such vital 
importance, he always found time to pour out his hopes and 
fears and doings in bulky letters which reached his lady 
love by coach, every fortnight, and which — "shortened ab- 
sence" to her impatient desire for the one man in the world 
who meant all to her. But even where Dorothy's heart was 
so seriously engaged, she could no more help showering co- 
quettish smiles and pretty speeches on those residents of 
Fairfield whom she came to know, than she could help be- 
witching them by her charm and beauty. The more sober- 
minded men of the town were delighted by her conversa- 
tion, which was sparkling, and by her keen comment on 
public affairs — comment far beyond the capability of most 
of her sex and age, while it became the fashion to pay court 
to vivacious Dorothy, but the moment an adorer attempted 
to express his sentimental feelings he found himself check- 
mated by a haughty reserve that commanded admiration, 
but forced an understanding that Mistress Dolly wished no 
such attentions. 

Of this John Hancock knew nothing, as Dolly was the 
most tantalizingly discreet of correspondents, and poor 
Hancock looked and longed in vain for written evidence of 
her devotion, despite which, however, he continued to 
write long letters to her: 

In one, written on June lo, 1775, he says pathetically: 

I am almost prevailed on to think that my letters to my aunt and 
you are not read, for I cannot obtain a reply. I have asked a million 

questions and not an answer to one I really take it extremely 

unkind. Pray, my dear, use not so much ceremony and reservedness. 

I want long letters I beg my dear Dolly, you will write 

me often and long letters. I will forgive the past if you will mend in 
future. Do ask my aunt to make me up and send me a watch-string, 

and do you make up another. I want something of your doing 

65 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

1 have sent you in a paper Box directed to you, the following things 
for your acceptance & which I do insist you wear, if you do not, I shall 
think the Donor is the objection. 

2 pair white silk, 4 pair white thread stockings which I think will fit 
you, I pr Black Satin Shoes, i pr Black Calem Do, the other shall be sent 

when done, i very pretty light Hat, I neat airy Summer Cloak 

2 caps, I Fann. 

I wish these may please you, I shall be gratified if they do, pray write 
me, I will attent to all your Commands. 

Adieu my Dr Girl, and believe me with great Esteem and Affection 
Yours without Reserve 

John Hancock. 

Surely such an appeal could not have failed of its purpose, 
and we can imagine Dorothy in the pretty garments of a 
lover's choosing, and her pride and pleasure in wearing them. 
But little coquette that she was, she failed to properly trans- 
mit her appreciation to the man who was so eager for it, 
and at that particular time her attention was entirely taken 
up by other diversions, of which, had Hancock known, he 
would have considered them far more important than 
colonial affairs. 

To the Fairfield mansion, where Dolly and her aunt were 
staying, had come a visitor, young Aaron Burr, a relative 
of Thaddeus Burr, a brilliant and fascinating young man, 
whose cleverness and charming personality made him very 
acceptable to the young girl, whose presence in the house 
added much zest to his visit, and to whom he paid instant 
and marked attention. This roused Aunt Lydia to alarm 
and apprehension, for she knew Dorothy's firmness when 
she made up her mind on any subject, and feared that the 
tide of her affection might turn to this fascinating youth, 
for Dorothy made no secret of her enjoyment of his atten- 
tions. This should not be. Aunt Lydia decided. 

With determination, thinly veiled by courtesy, she walked 
and talked and drove and sat with the pair, never leaving 
them alone together for one moment, which strict chaperon- 

66 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

age Dolly resented, and complained of to a friend with as 
much of petulancy as she ever showed, tossing her pretty 
head with an air of defiance as she told of Aunt Lydia's 
foolishness, and spoke of her new friend as a "handsome 
young man with a preuty property." 

The more devoted young Burr became to her charming 
ward, the more determined became Aunt Lydia that John 
Hancock should not lose what was dearer to him than his 
own life. With the clever diplomacy of which she was 
evidently past mistress, she managed to so mold affairs to 
her hking that Aaron Burr's visit at Fairfield came to an 
unexpectedly speedy end, and, although John Hancock's 
letters to his aunt show no trace that he knew of a danger- 
ous rival, yet he seems to have suddenly decided that if 
he were to wed the fair Dolly it were well to do it quickly. 
And evidently he was still the one enshrined in her heart, 
for in the recess of Congress between August first and 
September fifth, John Hancock dropped the affairs of the 
colony momentarily, and journeyed to Fairfield, never again 
to be separated from her who was ever his ideal of womanhood. 

On the 28th day of August, 1775, Dorothy Quincy and 
the patriot, John Hancock, were married, as was chronicled 
in the New York Gazette of September 4th : 

This evening was married at the seat of Thaddeus Burr, at Fairfield, 
Conn., by the Reverend Mr. Eliot, the Hon. John Hancock, Esq., Presi- 
dent of the Continental Congress, to Miss Dorothy Quincy, daughter of 
Edmund Quincy, Esq., of Boston. Florus informs us that "in the second 
Punic War when Hannibal besieged Rome and was very near making 
himself master of it, a field upon which part of his army lay, was offered 
for sale, and was immediately purchased by a Roman, in a strong assur- 
ance that the Roman valor and courage would soon raise the siege." 
Equal to the conduct of that illustrious citizen was the marriage of the 
Honorable John Hancock, Esq., who, with his amiable lady, has paid 
as great a compliment to American valor by marrying now while all th& 
colonies are as much convulsed as Rome was when Hannibal was at 
her gates. 

6 G-j 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

The New York Post also gave a detailed account of the 
wedding, and of the brilHant gathering of the "blue blood" 
of the aristocratic old town as well as of the colonies. Had 
the ceremony taken place in the old Quincy home, as had 
originally been intended, in a room which had been spe- 
cially paneled with flowers and cupids for the auspicious 
event, it would doubtless have been a more homelike affair, 
especially to the bride, but it would have lacked the dignified 
elegance to which the stately Burr mansion lent itself so 
admirably. 

Pretty Dorothy a bride! Mrs. John Hancock at her gal- 
lant husband's side, receiving congratulations, with joy 
shining in her dark eyes, which were hfted now and again 
to her husband, only to be answered by a responsive glance 
of love and loyalty. They were a handsome and a happy 
pair, to whom for a few hours the strife of the colonies had 
become a dream — to whom, despite the turbulent struggle 
in which Hancock must soon again play such a prominent 
part, the future looked rose color, because now nothing but 
death could part them. 

Vivacious Dorothy had not only now become Mrs. John 
Hancock, but she was also called Madam Hancock! Oh, 
the bhss of the dignified title to its youthful owner! She 
read with girUsh satisfaction the item in a New York paper 
of September 4th, which reported, "Saturday last, the 
Honorable John Hancock and his Lady arrived here, and 
immediately set out for Philadelphia." With still greater 
pleasure a few days later she set herself to the estabhshing 
of a home in that city which was to be her first residence 
as a married woman. And well did she carry out her de- 
sign to make John Hancock a worthy comrade, for besides 
accomplishing all the necessary duties of a housekeeper, she 
quickly acquired the dignity and reserve needed for the wife 

68 



DOROTHY QUINCY 

of a man filling such a prominent position in the colonies 
during the war for Independence. There was much lavish 
living and extravagant elegance of dressing, with which she 
was obliged to vie, even in the town where the Quakers 
were so much in evidence; and meeting, as she did, many 
persons of social and political importance, it was impossible 
for pretty Dorothy to be as care-free and merry now as she 
had been in the days when no heavy responsibilities rested 
on her shoulders. 

So well did she fill her position as Madam Hancock that 
she won golden opinions from the many distinguished men 
and women who came together under Hancock's hospitable 
roof-tree; her husband noting with ever increasing pride 
that his Dolly was more deeply and truly an American 
woman in her flowering than ever he could have dreamed 
she would become when he fell in love with her on that 
Sunday in June. And loyally did he give to her credit for 
such inspiration as helped to mold him into the man who 
received the greatest honors in the power of the colonists 
to bestow. 

With the later life of Dorothy Hancock we are not con- 
cerned; our rose had bloomed. It matters not to us that 
Madam Hancock was one of the most notable women of 
the Revolution, who had known and talked with George 
Washington, that she and Martha Washington had actually 
discussed their husbands together. To Dorothy's great 
pride Mrs. Washington had spoken enthusiastically of Han- 
cock's high position, while at that time her husband was 
but a general. Then, too, pretty Madam Hancock had 
known the noble Lafayette — had met in intimate surround- 
ings all those great and patriotic men who had devoted 
their best endeavors to the establishment of a free and inde- 
pendent America. All that is no concern of ours in this 
brief story of the girl, Dorothy, nor is it ours to mourn with 

69 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 
the mother over the death or her two children, nor ours to 
wonder why, three years after the death of her beloved 
husband, a man who had made his mark In the history of 
his country, she should have married again. 

Ours only it is to admire Hancock's Dolly as we see her 
in her girlish beauty, as we follow her through the black 
days of fear and of tension preceding the outbreak of that 
war in which her lover played such a prominent part; ours 
to enjoy her charming manner and sparkling wit, and to 
respect with deep admiring a brave girl of the Massa- 
chusetts colony who watched a great nation in its birth- 
throes, and whose name is written in history not alone as 
Madam Hancock, but as Dorothy Quincy, the girl who saw 
the first gun fired for Independence. 

An inspiration and an example for the girls of to-day, 
at a time when all good Americans are united in a firm deter- 
mination to make the world safe for democracy. 



MOLLY PITCHER: THE BRAVE GUNNER OF THE 
BATTLE OF MONMOUTH 

"/^^H, but I would like to be a soldier!" 

\_y The exclamation did not come from a man or boy 
as might have been expected, but from Mary Ludwig, a 
young, blue-eyed, freckled, red-haired serving-maid in the 
employ of General Irving's family, of Carlisle, Pennsyl- 
vania. Molly, as they called her, had a decided ability to 
do well and quickly whatever she attempted, and her eyes 
of Irish blue and her sense of humor must have been handed 
down to her somewhere along the line of descent, although 
her father, John George Ludwig, was a German who had 
come to America with the Palatines. 

Having been born in 1754 on a small dairy farm lying 
between Princeton and Trenton, New Jersey, Molly's early 
life was the usual happy one of a child who Hved in the 
fields and made comrades of all the animals, especially of 
the cows which quite often she milked and drove to pas- 
ture. Like other children of her parentage she was early 
taught to work hard, to obey without question, and never 
to waste a moment of valuable time. In rain or shine she 
was to be found on the farm, digging, or among the live stock, 
in her blue-and-white cotton skirt and plain-blue upper gar- 
ment, and she was so strong, it was said, that she could 
carry a three-bushel bag of wheat on her shoulder to the 
upper room of the granary. This strength made her very 
helpful in more than one way on the farm, and her parents 
objected strongly when she announced her determination 

71 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

to leave home and earn her living in a broader sphere of 
usefulness, but their objections were without avail. 

The wife of General Irving, of French and Indian war 
fame, came to Trenton to make a visit. She wished to take 
a young girl back to Carlisle with her to assist in the work 
of her household, and a friend told her of Molly Ludwig. 
At once Mrs. Irving saw and liked the buxom, honest-faced 
country girl, and Molly being willing, she was taken back 
to the Irvings' home. There she became a much respected 
member of the family, as well as a valuable assistant, for 
Molly liked to work hard. She could turn her hand to 
anything, from fine sewing, which she detested, to scrub- 
bing floors and scouring pots and pans, which she greatly 
enjoyed, being most at home when doing something which 
gave her violent exercise. Meals could have been served 
off' a floor which she had scrubbed, and her knocker and 
door-knobs were always in a high state of polish. 

But though she liked the housework which fell to her lot, 
it was forgotten if by any chance the General began to 
talk of his experiences on the battle-field. One day, when 
passing a dish of potatoes at the noon meal, the thrilHng 
account of a young artilleryman's brave deed so stirred 
Molly's patriotic spirit that she stood at breathless atten- 
tion, the dish of potatoes poised on her hand in mid-air 
until the last detail of the story had been told, then with 
a prodigious sigh she proclaimed her fervent desire to be a 
soldier. 

The General's family were not conventional and there 
was a hearty laugh at the expense of the serving-maid's 
ambition, in which Molly good-naturedly joined. Little 
did she dream that in coming days her wish was to be ful- 
filled, and her name to be as widely known for deeds of 
valor as that of the artilleryman who had so roused her 
enthusiasm. 

72 



MOLLY PITCHER 

So wholesome and energetic in appearance was Molly 
that she had many admirers, some of them fired with a 
degree of practical purpose, beyond their sentimental 
avowals, Molly treated them one and all with indifference 
except as comrades until John Hays, the handsome young 
barber of the town, much sought after by the girls of Car- 
lisle, began to pay her attention, which was an entirely 
different matter. Molly grew serious-minded, moped as 
long as it was possible for one of her rollicking nature to 
mope — even lost her appetite temporarily — then she mar- 
ried the adoring and ecstatic Hays, and gave her husband 
a heart's loyal devotion. 

Of a sudden the peaceful Pennsylvania village was stirred 
to its quiet center by echoes of the battle of Lexington, and 
no other subject was thought of or talked about. All men 
with a drop of red blood in their veins were roused to 
action, and Hays was no slacker. One morning he spoke 
gently to his wife, with intent to hurt her as little as possible, 

"I am going, Molly," he said; "I've joined the Con- 
tinental army." 

Then he waited to see the effect of his words. Although he 
knew that his wife was patriotic, he was utterly unprepared 
for the response that flamed in her eager eyes as she spoke. 

**God bless you!" she exclaimed; "I am proud to be a 
soldier's wife. Count on me to stand by you." 

And stand by she did, letting no tears mar the last hours 
with him, and waving as cheerful a farewell when he left 
her as though he were merely going for a day's pleasuring. 
From the firing of the first gun in the cause of freedom her 
soul had been filled with patriotic zeal, and now she rejoiced 
in honoring her country by cheerfully giving the man she 
loved to its service, although she privately echoed her wish 
of long ago when she had exclaimed, "Oh, how I wish I 
could be a soldier!" 

73 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

Like a brave and sensible young woman, Molly stayed on 
with the Irvings, where she scrubbed and scoured and baked 
and brewed and spun and washed as vigorously as before, 
smiling proudly with no sharp retort when her friends laugh- 
ingly predicted that she "had lost her pretty barber, and 
would never set eyes on him again." She was too glad to 
have him serving his country, and too sure of his devotion, 
to be annoyed by any such remarks, and kept quietly on 
with her work as though it were her sole interest in life. 

Months went by, and hot July blazed its trail of parched 
ground and wilted humanity. One morning, as usual 
Molly hung her wash on the Hnes, then she took a pail 
and went to gather blackberries on a near-by hillside. As 
she came back later with a full pail, she saw a horseman, 
as she afterward said, ** riding like lightning up to General 
Irving's house." Perhaps he had brought news from her 
husband, was her instant thought, and she broke into a 
run, for she had received no tidings from him for a long 
time, and was eager to know where he was and how he 
fared. She had been right in her instinct, the messenger 
had brought a letter from John Hays, and it contained great 
news indeed, for he wrote: 

"When this reaches you, take horse with bearer, who will 
go with you to your father's home. I have been to the 
farm and seen your parents, who wish you to be with them 
now. And if you are there, I shall be able to see you some- 
times, as we are encamped in the vicinity." 

Molly might have objected to such a peremptory com- 
mand, but the last sentence broke down any resistance she 
might have shown. Hastily she told Mrs. Irving of the 
letter and its tidings, and although that lady was more than 
sorry to lose Molly at such short notice, she not only made 
no objections to her departure, but helped her with her 
hurried preparations and wished her all possible good fort- 

74 



MOLLY PITCHER 

une. In less time than it takes to tell it, Molly had "un- 
pegged her own clothing from the lines," then seeing they 
were still wet, she made the articles into a tight bundle 
which she tied to the pommel, the messenger sprang into 
the saddle, with Molly behind him, and off they started 
from the house which had been Molly's home for so long, 
journeying to the farm of her childhood's memories. 

Although she missed the kind-hearted Irving family who 
had been so good to her, it was a pleasure to be with her 
parents again, and Molly put on her rough farm garments once 
more, and early and late was out among the cattle, or work- 
ing in the fields. And she had a joyful surprise when her 
husband paid her a flying visit a few days later. After that, 
he came quite frequently, though always unexpectedly, and 
if proof was wanting that she was the kind of a wife that 
John Hays was proud to have his fellow- soldiers see, it lies 
in the fact that he allowed Molly to visit him in camp 
more than once. She saw him at Trenton, and at Prince- 
ton, before the Continental army routed the British there, 
on January 3, 1777. 

In order to surprise the three British regiments which 
were at Princeton at that time. General Washington, Com- 
mander-in-chief of the Continental force, quietly left Tren- 
ton with his troops, and crept up behind the unsuspecting 
British at Princeton, killing about one hundred men and 
taking three hundred prisoners, while his own losses were 
only thirty men. Then, anxious to get away before Lord 
Cornwallis could arrive with reinforcements for the British, 
he slipped away with his men to Morristown, New Jersey, 
while the cannon were still booming on the battle-field, 
their noise being mistaken in Trenton for thunder. With 
the Continental troops went John Hays, gunner, and as soon 
as Molly heard of the engagement, and the retirement of 
General Washington's troops, she hastened to the field of 

75 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

action to seek out any wounded men whom she could care 
for or comfort in their last hours. Picking her way across 
the littered field, she brought a drink of water here, lifted 
an aching head there, and covered the faces of those who 
had seen their last battle. As she passed slowly on, she 
saw a friend of her husband's, Dilwyn by name, lying half 
buried under a pile of debris. She would have passed him 
by but for a feeble movement of his hand under the rub- 
bish, seeing which, she stooped down, pushed aside his cov- 
ering, and felt for his pulse to see whether he were still alive. 
As she bent down her quick eye saw a cannon near where 
the wounded man lay, a heavy, cumbersome gun which the 
Continentals had evidently left behind as being of a type 
too heavy to drag with them on their hasty march to 
Morristown. Beside the cannon Molly also saw a lighted 
fuse slowly burning down at one end. She had a tempta- 
tion as she looked at the piece of rope soaked in some com- 
bustible, lying there ready to achieve its purpose. She 
stooped over Dilwyn again, then she rose and went to 
the cannon, fuse in hand. In a half-second the booming of 
the great gun shook the battle-field — Molly had touched it 
off, and at exactly the right moment, for even then the ad- 
vance guard of Lord CornwalHs and his men was within 
range! 

At the sound of the cannon they halted abruptly, in alarm. 
The foe must be lurking in ambush dangerously near them, 
for who else would have set off the gun? They spent an 
hour hunting for the concealed Continentals, while Molly 
picked Dilwyn up and laid him across her shoulder as she 
had carried the wheat-bags in childhood, and coolly walked 
past the British, who by that time were swarming across 
the battle-field, paying no attention to the red-headed young 
woman carrying a wounded soldier off the field, for what 
could she have to do with discharging a gun! 

76 



MOLLY PITCHER 

Molly meanwhile bore her heavy burden across the fields 
for two miles until she reached the farm, where she laid 
the wounded man gently down on a bed which was bliss- 
fully soft to his aching bones, and where he was cared for 
and nursed as if he had been Molly's own kin. When at 
last he was well again and able to ride away from the farm, 
he expressed his admiration for his nurse in no measured 
terms, and there came to her a few days later a box of fine 
dress goods with the warmest regards of "one whose life 
you saved." As she looked at the rich material, Molly 
smoothed it appreciatively with roughened hand, then she 
laid the bundle away among her most cherished possessions, 
but making use of it never entered her mind — it was much 
too handsome for that! 

Every hour the British troops were delayed at Princeton 
was of great advantage to the Continental forces, and by 
midnight they had come to the end of their eighteen-mile 
march, to their great rejoicing, as it had been a terrible 
walk over snow and ice and in such bitter cold that many 
a finger and ear were frozen, and all had suffered severely. 
The men had not had a meal for twenty-four hours, had 
made the long march on top of heavy fighting, and when 
they reached their destination they were so exhausted that 
the moment they halted they dropped and fell into a heavy 
sleep. 

While they were marching toward Morristown, Lord 
Cornwallis was rushing his troops on to New Brunswick 
to save the supplies which the British had stored there. 
To his great relief he found them untouched, so he gave up 
the pursuit of Washington's fleeing forces, and the Con- 
tinental army, without resistance, went into winter quarters 
at Morristown, as their Commander had planned to do. 
While John Hays, with the American army, was following 
his Commander, Molly, at the farm, had become the proud 

77 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

mother of a son, who was named John Hays, Jr., and who 
became Molly's greatest comfort in the long months when 
she had no ghmpse or tidings of her husband. Then came 
news — General Washington's troops were again on the 
march, passing through New Jersey toward New York. 
There would be a chance to see her husband, and Molly 
determined to take it, whatever risk or hardship it might 
entail, for not only did she long to see Hays, but she could 
not wait longer to tell him of the perfections of their son. 
And so Molly went to the scene of the battle of Monmouth. 

It was Sunday, the 28th of June, 1778, a day which has 
come down in history, not only because of the battle which 
marks its date, but because of its scorching heat. The mer- 
cury stood near the 100 mark, and man and beast were 
well-nigh overcome. 

History tells us that the British had remained at Phila- 
delphia until early in June, when they had evacuated that 
city and crossed the Delaware River on June the eighteenth, 
with an intention to march across New Jersey to New York. 
Having heard of this movement of the British, General 
Washington, with a force nearly equal to that of the enemy, 
also crossed into New Jersey, with the purpose of retarding 
the British march and, if opportunity offered, bring on a 
general engagement. By the 22d of June the whole of the 
American force was massed on the east bank of the Dela- 
ware in a condition and position to give the enemy battle. 
Despite some opposition on the part of General Lee and other 
officers, Lafayette and Greene agreed with General Washing- 
ton in his opinion that the time to strike had come, and soon 
orders were given which led to the battle of Monmouth. 

Lafayette was detached with a strong body of troops to 
follow up the British rear and act, if occasion presented. 
Other riflemen and militia were in advance of him and on 
his flanks, making a strong body of picked troops. To pro- 

78 



II 



MOLLY PITCHER 

tect his twelve-mile baggage-train from these troops, Sir 
Henry Clinton placed them with a large escort under 
Knyphausen, while he united the rest of his force in the 
rear to check the enemy, if they came too close. The dis- 
tance between Knyphausen's force and that which brought 
up the rear suggested the idea to Washington to concen- 
trate his assault on the rear force, and to hasten the attack 
before the British should reach the high ground of Middle- 
town, about twelve miles away, where they would be com- 
paratively safe. 

At once General Lee was sent forward to join Lafayette, 
with instructions to engage the enemy in such action as was 
possible until the remainder of the troops should arrive. 
Lee carried out his part of the command in such a half- 
hearted way as to bring severe censure on him later, and 
when General Greene arrived on the scene of action, Lee 
and his men were in retreat. 

A sharp reproof from General Washington brought Lee 
partially to his senses; he turned about and engaged in a 
short, sharp conflict with the enemy, and retired from the 
field in good order. At that time Greene's column arrived, 
and as a movement of the British threatened Washington's 
right wing, he ordered Greene to file off from the road to 
Monmouth and, while the rest of the army pushed forward, 
to fight his way into the wood at the rear of Monmouth 
Court-House. Greene was obeying orders when, foreseeing 
that by the flight of Lee Washington would be exposed to 
the whole weight of the enemy's attack, he suddenly wheeled 
about and took an advantageous position near the British 
left wing. 

As he hoped, this diverted the enemy's attention from 
the fire of the American army. A furious attack followed, 
but was met by a cool resistance which was the result of the 
army's discipline at Valley Forge. 

79 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

The artillery of Greene's division, well posted on a com- 
manding position, was in charge of General Knox, and poured 
a most destructive fire on the enemy, seconded by the in- 
fantry, who steadily held their ground. Repeated efforts 
of the British only increased their losses. 

Colonel Monckton's grenadiers, attempting to drive back 
the American forces, were repulsed by General Knox's ar- 
tillery with great slaughter. A second attempt was made, 
and a third, when Colonel Monckton received his death- 
blow and fell from his horse. General Wayne then came 
up with a force of farmers, their sleeves rolled up as if har- 
vesting, and they forced the British back still farther, 
leaving the bodies of their wounded and dead comrades on 
the field. 

Through the long hours of the desperate fighting on that 
June day, the mercury rose higher and higher, and many 
of the men's tongues were so swollen with the heat that 
they could not speak, and they fell exhausted at their posts. 
Seeing this, Molly, who was with her husband on the field 
of battle, discovered a bubbling spring of water in the 
west ravine, and spent her time through the long hours of 
blistering heat tramping back and forth carrying water 
for the thirsty men, and also for her husband's cannon. 
She used for her purpose "the cannon's bucket," which 
was a fixture of the gun of that time, and she told after- 
ward how every time she came back with a brimming bucket 
of the sparkling water, the men would call out: 

"Here comes Molly with her pitcher!" 

As the battle grew fiercer and her trips to the spring be- 
came more frequent, the call was abbreviated into, "Molly 
Pitcher!" by which name she was so generally known from 
that day that her own name has been almost forgotten. 

Higher and higher rose the sun in a cloudless sky, and 
up mounted the mercury until the suffering of the soldiers 

80 



MOLLY PITCHER 

in both armies was unspeakable, although the British were 
in a worse state than the Americans, because of their woolen 
uniforms, knapsacks, and accoutrements, while the Con- 
tinental army had no packs and had laid off all unnecessary 
clothing. Even so, many of both forces died of prostration, 
despite Molly's cooling drinks which she brought to as many 
men as possible. John Hays worked his cannon bravely, 
while perspiration streamed down his face and heat blurred 
his vision. Suddenly all went black before him — the ram- 
mer dropped from his nerveless hand, and he fell beside 
his gun. Quickly to his side Molly darted, put a handker- 
chief wet with spring water on his hot brow, laid her head 
on his heart to see whether it was still beating. He was 
alive! Beckoning to two of his comrades, Molly com- 
manded them to carry him to the shade of a near-by tree. 
And soon she had the satisfaction of seeing a faint smile 
flicker over his face as she bent above him. At that mo- 
ment her keen ears heard General Knox give a command. 

"Remove the cannon!" he said. '*We have no gunner 
brave enough to fill Hays's place!" 

"No!" said Molly, hastening to the General's side and 
facing him with a glint of triumph in her blue eyes. "The 
cannon shall not be taken away! Since my brave husband 
is not able to work it, I will do my best to serve in his 
place!" 

Picking up the rammer, she began to load and fire with 
the courage and decision of a seasoned gunner, standing at 
her post through long hours of heat and exhaustion. When 
at a late hour the enemy had finally been driven back with 
great loss, and Washington saw the uselessness of any re- 
newal of the assault. General Greene strode over to the place 
where Molly Pitcher was still manfully loading the cannon, 
and gripped her hand with a hearty: 

"I thank you in the name of the American army!" 
8i 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

One can fancy how Molly's heart throbbed with pride 
at such commendation, as she picked her way over the 
bodies of the dead and wounded to the spot where her hus- 
band was propped up against a tree, slowly recovering from 
his prostration, but able to express his admiration for a wife 
who had been able to take a gunner's place at a moment's 
notice and help to rout the British. 

"That night the American army slept upon their arms; 
Greene, like his Commander, taking his repose without 
couch or pillow, on the naked ground, and with no other 
shelter than a tree beneath the broad canopy of heaven. 
But this shelter was not sought, nor sleep desired, until 
every wounded and hungry soldier had been cared for and 
fed with the best food the camp could supply. Rising at dawn, 
Washington found the enemy gone! They had stolen silently 
away with such rapidity as would, when their flight became 
known, put them beyond the chance of pursuit — and so the 
American army had been victorious at Monmouth, and Mol- 
ly Pitcher had played an important part in that victory." 

"She, too, had slept that night under the stars, and when 
morning came she was still in the dusty, torn, powder- 
stained clothing she had worn as cannonier, and afterward 
while working over the wounded. Her predicament was a 
bad one when a messenger arrived from General Washing- 
ton requesting an interview with her. She, Molly Pitcher, 
to be received by the Commander-in-chief of the American 
forces in such a garb as that! How could she make herself 
presentable for the interview? With her usual quick wit, 
Molly borrowed an artilleryman's coat, which in some meas- 
ure hid her grimy and torn garments. In this coat over her 
own petticoats, and a cocked hat with a feather, doubtless 
plucked from a straying hen, she made no further ado, but 
presented herself to Washington as requested, and from 
the fact that she wore such a costume on that June day 

82 



MOLLY PITCHER 

has come the oft-repeated and untrue story that she wore 
a man's clothing on the battle-field. 

General Washington's eyes lighted with pleasure at the 
sight of such a brave woman, and he received her with 
such honor as he would have awarded one of his gallant 
men. Molly was almost overcome with his words of praise, 
and still more so when he conferred on her the brevet of 
Captain, from which came the title, "Captain Molly," 
which she was called by the soldiers from that day. Gen- 
eral Washington also recommended that she be given a 
soldier's half-pay for life, as a reward for her faithful per- 
formance of a man's duty at the battle of Monmouth. 

That was enough to make John Hays, now completely 
recovered from his prostration, the proudest man in the 
army; but added to that he had the satisfaction of seeing 
Molly given a tremendous ovation by the soldiers, who 
cheered her to the echo when they first saw her after that 
fateful night. To cap the climax, the great French General 
Lafayette showed his appreciation of her courage by asking 
Washington if his men "might have the pleasure of giving 
Madame a trifle." 

Then those French officers who were among the Ameri- 
can regiments formed in two long lines, between which 
Captain Molly passed in her artilleryman's coat, cocked 
hat in hand, and while lusty cheers rang out, the hat was 
filled to overflowing with gold crowns. 

And so it was that Molly Pitcher, a country girl of New 
Jersey, played a prominent part in the battle of Monmouth 
and won for herself an enviable place in American history. 

It is of little importance to us that when the war was 
over, Molly with her husband and child lived quietly in 
Carlisle, John Hays going back to his trade, Molly doing 
washing and enjoying her annuity of forty dollars a year 
from the government. 

7 83 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

After John Hays's death Molly married again, an Irish- 
man named McCauley, and it would have been far better 
for her to have remained a widow, for her life was unhappy 
from that time until her death in 1833, at the age of seventy- 
nine. 

But that does not interest us. Ours it is to admire the 
heroic deeds of Molly Pitcher on the battle-field, to thrill 
that there was one woman of our country whose achieve- 
ments have inspired poets and sculptors in the long years 
since she was seen 

loading, firing that six-pounder, — 

when, as a poet has said, 

Tho' like tigers fierce they fought us, to such zeal had Molly brought us 
That tho' struck with heat and thirsting, yet of drink we felt no lack; 
There she stood amid the clamor, swiftly handling sponge and rammer 
While we swept with wrath condign, on their line. ^ 

At Freehold, New Jersey, at the base of the great Mon- 
mouth battle monument are five bronze tablets, each five 
feet high by six in width, commemorating scenes of that 
memorable battle. One of these shafts is called the "Molly 
Pitcher," and shows Mary Hays using that six-pounder; 
her husband lies exhausted at her feet, and General Knox 
is seen directing the artillery. Also forty-three years after 
her death, on July 4, 1876, the citizens of Cumberland 
County, Pennsylvania, placed a handsome slab of Italian 
marble over her grave, inscribed with the date of her death 
and stating that she was the heroine of Monmouth. 

In this, our day, we stand at the place where the old and 
the new in civilization and in humanity stand face to face. 
Shall the young woman of to-day, with new inspiration, 
fresh courage, and desire to better the world by her exist- 

1 Thomas Dunn English. 
84 



MOLLY PITCHER 

ence, face backward or forward in the spirit of patriotism 
which animated Molly Pitcher on the battle-field of Mon- 
mouth ? Ours "not to reason why," ours "but to do and die," 
not as women, simply, but as citizen-soldiers on a battle- 
field where democracy is the golden reward, where in stand- 
ing by our guns we stand shoulder to shoulder with the 
inspired spirits of the world. 

Molly Pitcher stood by her gun in 1778 — our chance has 
come in 1917. Let us not falter or fail in expressing the 
best in achievement and in womanhood. 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW: THE GIRL WHO RISKED 

ALL THAT SLAVERY MIGHT BE ABOLISHED 

AND THE UNION PRESERVED 

I 

IT was the winter of 1835. Study hour was just over in 
one of Philadelphia's most famous ''finishing schools" 
of that day, and half a dozen girls were still grouped around 
the big center-table piling their books up preparatory to 
going to their rooms for the night. Suddenly Catherine 
Holloway spoke. 

"Listen, girls," she said; "Miss Smith says we are to 
have a real Debating Club, with officers and regular club 
nights, and all sorts of interesting subjects. Won't it be 
fun.? And what do you suppose the first topic is to be?" 

Books were dropped on the table, and several voices ex- 
claimed in eager question, "What?" 

"'Resolved: That Slavery be abolished.' And Betty Van 
Lew is to take the negative side!" 

There was a chorus of suppressed "Oh-h-hs!" around the 
table, then some one asked. "Who is going to take the 
other side?" 

The speaker shook her head. "I don't know," she said. 
"I hope it will be me. My, but it would be exciting to 
debate that question against Betty!" 

"You would get the worst of it," said a positive voice. 
"There isn't a girl in school who knows what she thinks 
on any subject as clearly as Betty knows what she believes 
about slavery." 

86 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

The speaker tossed her head. "You don't know much 
about it, if you think that!" she declared. "We Massa- 
chusetts colonists are just as sure on our side as she is on 
hers — and you all ought to be if you are not! Father says 
it is only in the cotton-raising States that they think the 
way Betty does, and we Northerners must stand firm against 
having human beings bought and sold Hke merchandise. I 
just hope I will be chosen on that debate against Betty." 

She was, but she came off vanquished by the verbal 
gymnastics of her opponent, to whom the arguments in 
favor of slavery were as familiar as the principles of arith- 
metic, for Betty had heard the subject discussed by eloquent 
and interested men ever since she was able to understand 
what they were talking about. 

Never did two opponents argue with greater fire and 
determination for a cause than did those two school-girls, 
pitted against each other in a discussion of a subject far 
beyond their understanding. So cleverly did the Virginia 
girl hold up her end of the debate against her New England 
opponent, and so shrewdly did she repeat all the arguments 
she had heard fall from Southern Hps, that she sat down 
amid a burst of applause, having won her case, proudly sure 
that from that moment there would be no more argument 
against slavery among her schoolmates, for who could 
know more about it than the daughter of one of Richmond's 
leading inhabitants.? And who could appreciate the great 
advantages of slavery to the slaves themselves better than 
one who owned them.? 

But Betty had not reckoned with the strength of the feel- 
ing among those Northerners with whose children she was 
associated. They had also heard many telling arguments at 
home on the side against that which Betty had won be- 
cause she had comphed so fully with the rules of debate; 
and she had by no means won her friends over to her way 

87 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

of thinking. Many a heated argument was carried on later 
in the Quaker City school over that question which was 
becoming a matter of serious difference between the North 
and the South. 

Before the war for Independence slavery existed in all 
the States of the Union. After the war was over some of 
the States abolished slavery, and others would have fol- 
lowed their example had it not been for the invention of 
the cotton-gin, which made the owning of slaves much 
more valuable in the cotton-growing States. East of the 
Mississippi River slavery was allowed in the new States 
lying south of the Ohio, but forbidden in the territory north 
of the Ohio. When Missouri applied for admission into 
the Union, the question of slavery west of the Mississippi 
was discussed and finally settled by what was afterward 
called "The Missouri Compromise of 1820." 

In 1818, two years before this Compromise was agreed 
upon, Elizabeth Van Lew was born in Richmond. As we 
have already seen, when she was seventeen, she was in the 
North at school. Doubtless Philadelphia had been chosen 
not only because of the excellence of the school to which she 
was sent, but also because the Quaker City was her mother's 
childhood home, which fact is one to be kept clearly in mind 
as one follows Betty Van Lew's later life in all its thrilling 
details. 

For many months after her victory as a debater Betty's 
convictions did not waver — she was still a firm believer 
that slavery was right and best for all. Then she spent a 
vacation with a schoolmate who lived in a New England 
village, in whose home she heard arguments fully as con- 
vincing in their appeal to her reason as those to which 
she had listened at home from earliest childhood. John 
Van Lew, Betty's father, had ever been one of those South- 
erners who argued that in slavery lay the great protection 

88 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

for the negro — in Massachusetts Betty heard impassioned 
appeals for the freedom of the individual, of whatever race, 
and to those appeals her nature slowly responded as a result 
partly of her inheritance from her mother's Northern blood, 
and partly as a result of that keen sense of justice which 
was always one of her marked traits. 

At the end of her school days in the North, Betty's 
viewpoint had so completely changed that she went back 
to her Richmond home an unwavering abohtionist, who 
was to give her all for a cause which became more sacred 
to her than possessions or Hfe itself. 

Soon after her return to Virginia she was visited by the 
New England friend in whose home she had been a guest, 
and to the Massachusetts girl, fresh from the rugged hills 
and more severe Hfe of New England, Richmond was a 
fascinating spot, and the stately old mansion, which John 
Van Lew had recently bought, was a revelation of classic 
beauty which enchanted her. 

The old mansion stood on Church Hill, the highest of 
Richmond's seven hills. "Across the way was St. John's, 
in the shadow of whose walls Elizabeth Van Lew grew from 
childhood. St. John's, which christened her and confirmed 
her, and later barred its doors against her." Behind the 
house at the foot of the hill stood "The Libby," which in 
years to come was to be her special care. . . . But this is an- 
ticipating our story. Betty Van Lew, full of the charm 
and enthusiasm of youth, had just come home from school, 
and with her had come the Northern friend, to whom the 
Southern city with its languorous beauty and warm hos- 
pitality was a wonder and a delight. 

The old mansion stood close to the street, and "from the 
pavement two steep, curving flights of stone steps, banistered 
by curious old iron raiHngs, ascended to either end of the 
square, white-pillared portico which formed the entrance 

89 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

to the stately Van Lew home with its impressive hall and 
great high-ceihnged rooms. And, oh! the beauty of the 
garden at its rear!" 

Betty's friend reveled in its depths of tangled color and 
fragrance, as arm in arm the girls wandered down broad, 
box-bordered walks, from terrace to terrace by way of 
moss-grown stone stairs, deep sunk in the grassy lawn, and 
now and again the New England girl would exclaim: 

*'0h, Betty, I can't breathe, it is all so beautiful!" 

And indeed it was. "There were fig-trees, persimmons, 
mock orange, and shrubs ablaze with blossoms. The air 
was heavy with the sweetness of the magnoHas, loud with 
the mocking-birds in the thickets, and the drone of insects 
in the hot, dry grass. And through the branches of the 
trees on the lower terrace one could get frequent glimpses of 
the James River, thickly studded with black rocks and tiny 
green islands." No wonder that the girl from the bleak 
North found it in her heart to thrill at the beauty of such 
a gem from Nature's jewel-casket as was that garden of the 
Van Lews'! 

And other things were as interesting to her in a different 
way as the garden was beautiful. Many guests went to and 
from the hospitable mansion, and the little Northerner saw 
beautiful women and heard brilhant men talk intelHgently 
on many subjects of vital import, especially on the all- 
important subject of slavery; of the men who upheld it, 
of its result to the Union. But more interesting to her than 
anything else were the slaves themselves, of whom the 
Van Lews had many, and who were treated with the kind- 
ness and consideration of children in a family. 

"Of course, it is better for them!" declared Betty. "Every- 
body who has grown up with them knows that they sim- 
ply cant take responsibiHty, — and yet!" There was a long 
pause, then Betty added, softly: "And yet, all human 

90 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

beings have a right to be free; I know it; and all the States 
of the Union must agree on that before there is any kind 
of a bond between them." 

She spoke like an old lady, her arm leaning on the window- 
sill, with her dimpled chin resting in her hand, and as the 
moonlight gleamed across the window-sill, young as she 
was, in Betty Van Lew's face there was a gleam of that pur- 
pose which in coming years was to be her consecration and 
her baptism of fire, although a moment later the conversa- 
tion of the girls had drifted into more frivolous channels, 
and a coming dance was the all-important topic. 

As we know, when Missouri appHed for admission into 
the Union, the slavery question was discussed and finally 
settled by the so-called "Missouri Compromise" in 1820. 
Now, in 1849, a new question began to agitate both North 
and South. Before that time the debate had been as to 
the abohshing of slavery, but the question now changed to 
"Shall slavery be extended? Shall it be allowed in the 
country purchased from Mexico?" As this land had been 
made free soil by Mexico, many people in the North insisted 
that it should remain free. The South insisted that the 
newly acquired country was the common property of the 
States, that any citizen might go there with his slaves, and 
that Congress had no power to prevent them. Besides 
this, the South also insisted that there ought to be as many 
slave States as free States. At that time the numbers were 
equal — fifteen slave States and fifteen free. Some threats 
were made that the slaveholding States would leave the 
Union if Congress sought to shut out slavery in the territory 
gained from Mexico. 

That a State might secede, or withdraw from the Union, 
had long been claimed by a party led by John C. Calhoun, 
of South Carolina. Daniel Webster had always opposed this 
doctrine and stood as the representative of those who held 

91 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

that the Union could not be broken. Now, in 1850, Henry 
Clay undertook to end the quarrel between the States, and 
as a result there was a famous debate between the most 
notable living orators, Webster, Calhoun, and Clay, and a 
new compromise was made. It was called the Compromise 
of 1850, and it was confidently hoped would be a final 
settlement of all the troubles growing out of slavery. But 
it was not. With slow and increasing bitterness the feel- 
ing rose in both North and South over the mooted ques- 
tion, and slowly but surely events moved on toward the 
great crisis of i860, when Abraham Lincoln was elected 
President of the United States. 

"The Southern States had been hoping that this might be 
prevented, for they knew that Lincoln stood firmly for the 
abolition of slavery in every State in the Union, and that 
he was not a man to compromise or falter when he beheved 
in a principle. So as soon as he was elected the Southern 
States began to withdraw from the Union, known as the 
United States of America. First went South Carolina, 
then Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisi- 
ana. Then delegates from these States met in Montgomery, 
Alabama, and formed a new Union which they called the 
* Confederate States of America,* with Jefferson Davis as 
its President. Then Texas joined the Confederacy, and 
events were shaping themselves rapidly for an inevitable 
culmination. 

"When South CaroHna withdrew there was within her 
boundary much property belonging to the United States, 
such as lighthouses, court-houses, post-offices, custom- 
houses, and two important forts, Moultrie and Sumter, 
which guarded the entrance to Charleston harbor, and were 
held by a small band of United States troops under the 
command of Major Robert Anderson. 

"As soon as the States seceded a demand was made on 
92 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

the United States for a surrender of this property. The 
partnership called the Union, having been dissolved by the 
secession of South Carolina, the land on which the buildings 
stood belonged to the State, but the buildings themselves, 
being the property of the United States, should be paid for 
by the State, and an agent was sent to Washington to ar- 
range for the purchase. 

"Meanwhile, scenting grave trouble, troops were being 
enlisted and drilled, and Major Anderson, fearing that if 
the agent did not succeed in making the purchase the forts 
would be taken by force, cut down the flagstaff and spiked 
the guns at Fort Moultrie, and moved his men to Fort 
Sumter, which stood on an island in the harbor and could 
be more easily defended, and so the matter stood when 
Mr. Lincoln was inaugurated, March 4, 1861." 

Fort Sumter was now in a state of siege, Anderson and 
his men could get no food from Charleston, while the troops 
of the Confederacy had planted cannon with which they 
could at any time fire on the fort. Either the troops must 
very soon go away or food must be sent them. Mr. Lincoln 
decided to send food. But when the vessels with food, 
men and supplies reached Charleston, they found that the 
Confederates had already begun to fire on Fort Sumter. 
Then, as Major Anderson related: "Having defended the 
Fort for thirty-four hours, until the quarters were entirely 
burned, the main gates destroyed by fire . . . the magazine 
surrounded by flame, and its doors closed from the eff"ects 
of heat, four barrels and three cartridges only being avail- 
able, and no provisions remaining but pork, I accepted terms 
of evacuation off'ered by General Beauregard . . . and 
marched out of the Fort, Sunday the 14th instant, with 
colors flying and drums beating." 

When the news of the fall of Sumter reached the North, 
the people knew that all hope of a peaceable settlement of 

93 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

the dispute with the South was gone. Mr. Lincoln at once 
called for 75,000 soldiers to serve for three months, and 
the first gun of the Civil War had been fired. 

While these momentous events were stirring both North 
and South, Betty Van Lew, in her Richmond home, was ex- 
periencing the delights of young womanhood in a city cele- 
brated for its gaiety of social life. "There were balls and 
receptions in the great house, garden-parties in the wonder- 
ful garden, journeyings to the White Sulphur Springs, and 
other resorts of the day, in the coach drawn by six snowy 
horses," and all sorts of festivities for the young and light- 
hearted. Even in a city as noted for charming women 
as was Richmond, Betty Van Lew enjoyed an enviable 
popularity. To be invited to the mansion on the hill was 
the great delight of her many acquaintances, while more 
than one ardent lover laid his heart at her feet; but her 
pleasure was in the many rather than in the one, and she 
remained heart-whole while most of her intimate friends 
married and went to homes of their own. It is said that as 
she grew to womanhood, she was "of delicate physique 
and a small but commanding figure, briUiant, accompHshed 
and resolute, with great personahty and of infinite charm.'* 
At first no one took her fearless expression of opinion in 
regard to the slavery question seriously, coming as it did 
from the lips of such a charming young woman, but as time 
went on and she became more outspoken and more dili- 
gent in her efforts to uphft and educate the negroes, she 
began to be less popular, and to be spoken of as "queer 
and eccentric" by those who did not sympathize with her 
views. 

Nevertheless, Richmond's first families still eagerly ac- 
cepted invitations to the Van Lew mansion, and it was in 
its big parlor that Edgar Allan Poe read his poem, "The 
Raven," to a picked audience of Richmond's elect, there 

94 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

Jenny Lind sang at the height of her fame, and there as a 
guest came the Swedish novelist, Fredrika Bremer, and in 
later years came Gen. Ulysses S. Grant, whose admiration 
of Ehzabeth Van Lew was unbounded because of her ser- 
vice to the Union. 

Betty's father having died soon after she came from 
school, and her brother John being of a retiring disposition, 
Mrs. Van Lew and Betty did the honors of the stately house 
on the hill in a manner worthy of Southern society women, 
and as years went by and Betty became a woman, always 
when they had brilHant guests she listened carefully, say- 
ing little, but was fearlessly frank in her expression of opin- 
ion on vital subjects, when her opinion was asked. 

"And now, Sumter had been fired on. Three days after 
the Httle garrison marched out of the smoking fort, Virginia 
seceded from the Union, and Richmond went war-mad. 
In poured troops from other States, and the beautiful 
Southern city became a vast mihtary camp. Daily the 
daughters of the Confederacy met in groups to sew or knit 
for the soldiers, or to shoot at a mark with unaccustomed 
hands. One day a note was delivered at the Van Lew man- 
sion, and opened by Mrs. Van Lew, who read it aloud to 
her daughter: 

"*Come and help us make shirts for our soldiers. We 
need the immediate assistance of all our women at this 
critical time. . . .*" 

The silence in the room was unbroken except for the 
heart-beats of the two women facing a sure future, looking 
sadly into each other's eyes. Suddenly Elizabeth threw 
back her head proudly. 

"Never!" she said. "Right is right. We must abide 
by the consequences of our belief. We will work for the 
Union or sit idle!" 

The testing of Elizabeth Van Lew had come. Fearlessly 
95 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

she made her choice — fearlessly she took the consequences. 
From that moment her story is the story of the Federal 

Spy. 



II 

"Out in the middle of the turbulent river James lay Belle 
Isle Prison surrounded by its stockade. In the city of 
Richmond, at the foot of Church Street, almost at Betty 
Van Lew's door, was the Libby, with its grim, gray walls; 
only a stone's throw farther away were Castle Lightning 
on the north side of Cary Street, and Castle Thunder on the 
south side. In July of 1861 the battle of Bull Run was 
fought, and the Confederate army defeated and put to 
flight by the Union soldiers. The Libby, Belle Isle and 
Castle Thunder all were overflowing with scarred and suf- 
fering human beings, — ^with sick men, wounded men, dying 
men, and Northern prisoners." Here was work to do! 

Down the aisles of the hastily converted hospitals and 
into dim prison cells came almost daily a little woman with 
a big smile, always with her hands full of flowers or deli- 
cacies, a basket swinging from her arm. As she walked 
she hummed tuneless airs, and her expression was such a 
dazed and meaningless one that the prison guards and other 
soldiers paid httle heed to the coming and going of "Crazy 
Bet," as she was called. **Mis' Van Lew — poor creature, 
she's lost her balance since the war broke out. She'll do 
no harm to the poor boys, and maybe a bit of comfortin'. A 
permit? Oh yes, signed by General Winder himself, — let 
her be!" Such was the verdict passed from sentry-guard 
to sentry in regard to "Crazy Bet," who wandered on at 
will, humming her ditties and ministering to whom she 
would. 

One day a cautious guard noticed a strange dish she car- 
06 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

ried into the prison. It was an old French platter, with 
double bottom, in which water was supposed to be placed 
to keep the food on the platter hot. The dish roused the 
guard's suspicions, and to a near-by soldier he muttered 
something about it. Apparently unheeding him, "Crazy 
Bet" passed on beyond the grim, gray walls, carrying her 
platter, but she had heard his words. Two days later she 
came to the prison door again with the strange dish in her 
hand wrapped in a shawl. The sentry on guard stopped her. 

"I will have to examine that," he said. 

"Take it!" she said, hastily unwrapping it and dropping 
it into his hands. It contained no secret message that 
day, as it had before — only water scalding hot, and the 
guard dropped it with a howl of pain, and turned away 
to nurse his burned hands, while "Crazy Bet" went into 
the prison smiHng a broad and meaningless smile. 

Well did the Spy play her role, as months went by; 
more loudly she hummed, more vacantly she smiled, and 
more diligently she worked to obtain information regarding 
the number and placing of Confederate troops, which in- 
formation she sent on at once to Federal headquarters. 
Day by day she worked, daring loss of Hfe, and spending her 
entire fortune for the sake of the cause which was dearer 
to her than a good name or riches — the preservation of the 
Union and the abolishing of slavery. 

From the windows of the Libby, and from Belle Isle, the 
prisoners could see passing troops and supply-trains and 
give shrewd guesses at their strength and destination, 
making their conjectures from the roads by which they saw 
the Confederates leave the town. Also they often heard 
scraps of conversations between surgeons or prison guards, 
which they hoarded like so much gold, to pass on to "Crazy 
Bet," and so repay her kindness and her lavish generosity, 
which was as sincere as her underlying motive was genuine. 

97 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

Meals at the Van Lew mansion grew less and less bountiful, 
even meager, — not one article did either Elizabeth Van 
Lew or her loyal mother buy for themselves, but spent their 
ample fortune without stint on the sick and imprisoned 
in their city, while there was never an hour of her time that 
the Federal Spy gave to her own concerns. If there was 
nothing else to be done, she was writing a home letter for 
some heart-sick prisoner from the North, and secretly carry- 
ing it past the censors to be sure that it should reach the 
anxious family eagerly awaiting news of a loved one. 

"Crazy Bet" loaned many books to the prisoners, which 
were returned with a word or sentence or a page number 
faintly underlined here and there. In the privacy of her 
own room, the Spy would piece them together and read some 
important bit of news which she instantly sent to Federal 
headquarters by special messenger, as she had ceased using 
the mails in the early stages of the war. Or a friendly Httle 
note would be handed her with its hidden meaning impos- 
sible to decipher except by one who knew the code. Im- 
portant messages were carried back and forth in her baskets 
of fruit and flowers in a way that would have been danger- 
ous had not "Crazy Bet" estabhshed such a reputation for 
harmless kindness. She had even won over Lieutenant 
Todd, brother of Mrs. Lincoln, who was in charge of the 
Libby, by the personal ofi^erings she brought him of delec- 
table buttermilk and gingerbread. Clever Bet! 

So well did she play her part now, and with such assur- 
ance, that she would sometimes stop a stranger on the 
street and begin a heated argument in favor of the Union, 
while the person who did not know her looked on the out- 
spoken little woman with a mixture of admiration and con- 
tempt. At that time her Hfelong persecution, by those 
who had before been her loyal friends, began. Where be- 
fore she had been met with friendly bows and smiles, there 

98 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

were now averted glances or open insults. She encountered 
dislike, even hatred, on every side, but at that time it mat- 
tered little to her, for her heart and mind were occupied 
with bigger problems. 

What she did mind was that from time to time her per- 
mit to visit the hospitals and prisons was taken away, and 
she was obliged to use all the diplomacy of which she was 
mistress, to win it back again from either General Winder 
or the Secretary of War. At one time the press and people 
became so incensed against the Northern prisoners that 
no one was allowed to visit the prisons or do anything for 
their rehef. Among the clippings found among Betty Van 
Lew's papers is this: 

Rapped Over the Knucks. 

One of the city papers contained Monday a word of exhortation to cer- 
tain females of Southern residence (and perhaps birth) but of decidedly 
Northern and Abolition proclivities. The creatures thus alluded to were 
not named. ... If such people do not wish to be exposed and dealt 
with as alien enemies to the country, they would do well to cut stick 
while they can do so with safety to their worthless carcasses. 

On the margin in faded ink there is written: "These 
ladies were my mother and myself. God knows it was but 
little we could do." 

Spring came, and McClellan, at the head of the Army 
of the Potomac, moved up the" peninsula. ''On to Rich- 
mond!" was the cry, as the troops swept by. It is said that 
the houses in the city shook with the cannonading, and 
from their roofs the people could see the bursting of shells. 
"Crazy Bet," watching the battle with alternate hope and 
fear, was filled with fierce exultation, and hastily prepared a 
room in the house on the hill with new matting and fresh 
curtains for the use of General McClellan. But the Federal 
forces were repulsed by the Confederate troops under Gen- 
8 99 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

eral Lee and "drew away over the hills." General McClel- 
lan had failed in his attempt to take Richmond, and within 
that room freshly prepared for his use bitter disappoint- 
ment and dead hope were locked. 

There was great rejoicing in Richmond in this repulse 
of the Federal army, and even those old friends who were 
now enemies of Elizabeth Van Lew, could afford to throw 
her a smile or a kind word in the flush of their triumph. 
She responded pleasantly, for she was a big enough woman 
to understand a viewpoint which differed from her own. 
Meanwhile, she worked on tirelessly through the long days 
and nights of an unusually hot summer, meeting in secret 
conferences with Richmond's handful of Unionists, to plot 
and scheme for the aid of the Federal authorities. "The Van 
Lew mansion was the fifth in a chain of Union Secret Ser- 
vice relaying stations, whose beginning was in the head- 
quarters tent of the Federal army. Of this chain of sta- 
tions the Van Lew farm, lying a short distance outside of 
the city, was one. It was seldom difficult for Betty Van 
Lew to get passes for her servants to make the trip between 
the farm and the Richmond house, and this was one of her 
most valuable methods of transmitting and receiving secret 
messages. Fresh eggs were brought in from the farm almost 
every day. to the house on Church Hill, and no one was al- 
lowed to touch them until the head of the house had counted 
them, with true war-time economy, and she always took 
one out, for her own use in egg-nog, so she said. In reality 
that egg was but a shell which contained a tiny scroll of 
paper, a message from some Union general to the Federal 
Spy. An old negro brought the farm products in to Rich- 
mond, and he always stopped for a friendly chat with his 
mistress, yes, and took off his thick-soled shoes that he 
might deliver into her hands a cipher despatch which she 
was generally awaiting eagerly! Much sewing was done 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

for the Van Lews at that time by a little seamstress, who 
worked at both farm and city home, and in carrying dress 
goods and patterns back and forth she secreted much 
valuable information for the Spy, on whom the Union gen- 
erals were now depending for the largest part of their news 
in regard to Confederate plans and movements of troops." 
And she did not disappoint them in the slightest detail. 

She must have a disguise in which she could go about the 
city and its environs without fear of detection, and she 
must also gain more valuable and accurate information from 
headquarters of the Confederacy. This she resolved, and 
then set to work to achieve her end. At once she wrote to 
a negro girl, Mary Elizabeth Bowser, who had been one of 
the Van Lews' slaves, but who had been freed and sent 
North to be educated, inviting her to visit the stately man- 
sion where she had grown up, and the invitation v/as eagerly 
accepted. On her arrival in Richmond, she was closeted 
a long time with her one-time mistress, to whom she owed 
her Hberty, and when the interview ended the girl's eyes 
were shining, and she wore an air of fixed resolve only 
equaled by that of Betty Van Lew. 

A waitress was needed in the White House of the Southern 
Confederacy. Three days after Mary Bowser arrived at 
the Van Lews', she had apphed for the position and become 
a member of Jefferson Davis's household. Another link 
had been forged in the long chain of details by which the 
Spy worked her will and gained her ends. 

Despite the suspicion and ill-will felt in Richmond for 
the Van Lews, more than one Confederate officer and public 
official continued to call there throughout the war, to be 
entertained by them. The fare was meager in comparison 
to the old lavish entertaining, but the conversation was bril- 
liant and diverting, and so cleverly did Betty lead it that 
"many a young officer unwittingly revealed much impor- 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

tant information of which he never realized the value, but 
which was of great use to 'Crazy Bet' when combined 
with what she already knew. 

"And when night fell over the city Betty would steal out 
In her disguise of a farm-hand, in the buckskin leggins, one- 
piece skirt and waist of cotton, and the huge calico sun- 
bonnet, going about her secret business, a little lonely, un- 
noticed figure, and in a thousand unsuspected, simple ways 
she executed her plans and found out such things as she 
needed to know to aid the Federal authorities." 

History was in the making in those stirring days of 
1862, when, having failed to take Richmond, General 
McClellan had returned North by sea, when the Confeder- 
ates under General Lee prepared to invade the North, but 
were turned back after the great battle of Antietam. Thrill- 
ing days they were to live through, and to the urge and 
constant demand for service every man and woman of 
North and South instantly responded. But none of the 
women gave such daring service as did Elizabeth Van Lew. 
Known as a dauntless advocate of aboHtion and of the 
Union, suspected of a traitor's disloyalty to the South, but 
with that stain on her reputation as a Southerner unproved 
from the commencement of the war until its close, her life 
was in continual danger. She wrote a year later, "I was 
an enthusiast who never counted it dear if I could have 
served the Union — not that I wished to die." For four 
long years she awoke morning after morning to a new day 
of suspense and threatening danger, to nights of tension and 
of horrible fear. "No soldier but had his days and weeks 
of absolute safety. For her there was not one hour; be- 
trayal, friends' blunders, the carelessness of others; all 
these she had to dread." All these she accepted for the 
sake of a cause which she believed to be right and just. 

As her system of obtaining information in regard to movc- 
102 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

ments of the Confederates became more perfect, she was 
connected more closely with the highest Federal authorities, 
— so closely connected, in fact, that flowers which one day 
grew in her Richmond garden stood next morning on Gen- 
eral Grant's breakfast table. 

"One day she received a letter from General Butler, which 
was to be delivered to a Confederate oflScer on General 
Winder's staff. In the letter this officer was asked to 
*come through the lines and tell what he knew,' and there 
were promises of rewards if it should be done successfully. 
The Spy sat quietly thinking for some time after receiving 
this letter. If it should fall into Confederate hands it 
would be the death-warrant of its bearer. Who could be 
trusted to take it to the officer for whom it was intended? 
Coolly EHzabeth Van Lew arose, went out, and walked 
straight to the office of General Winder, took the letter from 
her bosom, and handed it to the officer for whom it was 
intended, watching him closely as he read it. 

"In the next room were detectives and armed guards, the 
whole machinery of the Confederate capital's secret poHce. 
The officer had but to raise his voice and her game would 
be up; she would pay the penalty of her daring with her 
life. She had been suspicious of the officer for some weeks, 
had marked him as a traitor to his cause. Was she right? 

"His face whitened, his lips were set as he read, then, 
without a quiver of a muscle, he rose and followed her out 
of the room; then he gave way and implored her to be 
more prudent. If she would never come there again he 
would go to her, he said. And so she gained another aid in 
her determined purpose of 'striking at the very heart of 
the Confederacy.' 

"Another day there was a message of vital importance to 
send to General Grant, who had asked her to make a report 
to him of the number and placing of forces in and about 

103 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

Richmond. The cipher despatch was ready, but if it were 
to reach Grant in time there was not an hour to lose in 
finding a messenger. At that time no servant of hers could 
leave the city, and no Federal agent could enter it. Hoping 
for an inspiration, she took her huge market-basket on her 
arm, the basket which was so familiar by this time as a 
part of 'Crazy Bet's' outfit, and with it swinging at her 
side, humming a tuneless song, she passed down the street, 
smihng aimlessly in return for mocking glances — and all 
the while in her hand she held the key to Richmond's 
defenses! 

"As she walked a man passed her and whispered, 'I'm 
going through to-night!' then walked on just ahead of 
her. She gave no sign of eagerness, but she was thinking: 
Was he a Federal agent to whom she could intrust her 
message, or was he sent out by the poHce to entrap her as 
had often been attempted? The cipher despatch in her 
hand was torn into strips, each one rolled into a tiny ball. 
Should she begin to drop them, one by one? In perplexity 
she glanced up into the man's face. No! Her woman's 
instinct spoke loud and clear, made her turn into a side 
street and hurry home. The next day she saw him march- 
ing past her house for the front with his Confederate regi- 
ment, in the uniform of a junior officer, and knew that once 
again she had been saved from death." 

But although she had many such escapes and her wit 
was so keen that it was a powerful weapon in any emer- 
gency, yet as the conflict between the North and the South 
deepened the need of caution became more necessary than 
ever, for Confederate spies were everywhere. In her half- 
destroyed diary which for many months lay buried near 
the Van Lew house, over and over again the writer em- 
phasizes her fear of discovery. She says: 

"If you spoke in your parlor or chamber, you whispered, 
104 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

— you looked under the lounges and beds. Visitors appar- 
ently friendly were treacherous, . . . Unionists lived ever in 
a reign of terror. I was afraid even to pass the prison; I 
have had occasion to stop near it when I dared not look up 
at the windows. I have turned to speak to a friend and 
found a detective at my elbow. Strange faces could some- 
times be seen peeping around the columns and pillars of the 
back portico. . . . Once I went to Jefferson Davis himself to 
see if we could not obtain some protection. . . . His private 
Secretary told me I had better apply to the Mayor. . . . 
Captain George Gibbs had succeeded Todd as keeper of the 
prisoners; so perilous had our situation become that we 
took him and his family to board with us. They were cer- 
tainly a great protection. . . . Such was our life — such was 
freedom in the Confederacy. I speak what I know." The 
diary also tells of Mrs. Van Lew's increasing dread of ar- 
rest, dear, delicate, loyal lady — for that was constantly 
spoken of, and reported on the street, while some never 
hesitated to say she should be hanged. 

Another summer came and wore away, and the third year 
of the war was drawing to a close in the terrible winter of 
1863-4. The Union army in the East had twice advanced 
against the Confederates, to be beaten back at Fredericks- 
burg and at Chancellorsville. In June and July of 1863 
Lee began a second invasion of the North, but was defeated 
at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. In July, 1863, Vicksburg and 
Port Hudson were captured and the Mississippi River was 
in Union hands, but in the following autumn the Confeder- 
ates of the West defeated the Union army at Chicka- 
mauga, after which General Grant took command and was 
victorious near Chattanooga, and so with alternate hope 
and despair on both sides the hideous war went on. 

Through cipher despatches "Crazy Bet" learned of an 
intended attempt of Federal officers to escape from Lib by 

105 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

Prison, and at once a room in the Van Lew mansion was 
made ready to secrete them if they achieved their pur- 
pose. The room was at the end of one of the big parlors, 
and dark blankets were hung over its windows; beds were 
made ready for exhausted occupants, and a low light kept 
burning day and night in readiness for their possible arrival. 

Meanwhile the prisoners in the Libby, desperate because 
of the horrible conditions in the buildings where they were 
quartered, were busily constructing a tunnel which ran from 
the back part of the cellar called "Rat-Hell" to the prison 
yard. The work was carried on under the direction of 
Colonel Rose, and his frenzied assistants worked like demons, 
determined to cut their way through the walls of that grim 
prison to the Ught and Hfe of the outer world. At last the 
tunnel was ready. With quivering excitement over their 
great adventure added to their exhaustion, the men who 
were to make their escape, one after another disappeared 
in the carefully guarded hole leading from the cellar of the 
prison into a great sewer, and thence into the prison yard. 
Of this Uttle company of adventurous men eleven Colonels, 
seven Majors, thirty-two Captains, and fifty-nine Lieuten- 
ants escaped before the daring raid was discovered. The 
news spread like wild-fire through the ranks of the prisoners 
who were still in the building and among those on duty. 
Immediately every effort was made by those in charge to 
re-capture the refugees and bring them back, and as a 
result, between fifty and sixty of them were once again 
imprisoned in the squalid cells of the Libby. 

Just at that time John Van Lew, Betty's brother, was 
conscripted into the Confederate army, and although unfit 
for miHtary duty because of his dehcate health, he was at 
once sent to Camp Lee. As he was a keen sympathizer 
with his sister's Union interests, as soon as he was sent to 
the Confederate camp he deserted and fled to the home of a 

1 06 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

family who lived on the outskirts of the city, who were both 
Union sympathizers and friends of his sister's. They hid 
him carefully, and Betty at once came to aid in planning 
for his escape from the city. Unfortunately it was the 
night of the escape of the Federal prisoners from the Libby, 
so a doubly strong guard was set over every exit from 
Richmond, making escape impossible. Here was a difficult 
situation! Betty Van Lew knew that some way out of the 
dilemma must be found; for the house where her brother 
was secreted would surely be searched for the escaped 
refugees, and it would go hard with those who were conceal- 
ing him if they were discovered harboring a deserter. 

With quick wit she immediately presented herself at 
General Winder's office, where she used her diplomatic 
powers so successfully that the general was entirely con- 
vinced of John Van Lew's unfit physical condition for mili- 
tary service, and promised to make every effort toward his 
exemption. When all efforts proved unavailing, the gen- 
eral took him into his own regiment, and "the Union sym- 
pathizer never wore a Confederate uniform, and only once 
shouldered a Confederate musket, when on a great panic 
day he stood, a figurehead guard at the door of a govern- 
ment department. At last, in 1864, when even General 
Winder could not longer protect him from active service 
at the front. Van Lew deserted again, and served with the 
Federal Army until after the fall of Richmond." 

Meanwhile the old Van Lew house, in its capacity of 
Secret Service station, was a hive of industry, which was 
carried on with such smooth and silent secrecy that no one 
knew what went on in its great rooms. And watching 
over all those who came and went on legitimate business, 
or as agents of the Federal Government on secret missions, 
was a woman, alert of body, keen of mind, standing at her 
post by day and by night. After all members of her house- 

107 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

hold were safely locked in their rooms for the night, the 
Spy would creep down, barefooted, to the big library with 
its ornamented iron fireplace. On either side of this fireplace 
were two columns, on each of which was a small, carved 
figure of a lion. Possibly by accident — probably by de- 
sign, one of these figures was loosened so that it could be 
raised like a box-lid, and in the darkness of the night the 
swift, silent figure of the Spy would steal into the big room, 
lift the carved lion, deftly slip a message in cipher into the 
cavity beneath the figure and cautiously creep away, with 
never a creaking board to reveal her coming or going. 

With equal caution and swift dexterity, early the next 
morning an old negro servant would steal into the room, 
duster and broom in hand, to do his cleaning. Into every 
corner of the room he would peer, to be sure there were no 
watching eyes, then he would sHp over to the fireplace, lift 
the lion, draw out the cipher message, place it sometimes in 
his mouth, sometimes in his shoe, and as soon as his morn- 
ing chores were done he would be seen plodding down the 
dusty road leading to the farm, where some one was eagerly 
waiting for the tidings he carried. Well had the Spy 
trained her messengers! 

The old mansion had also hidden protection for larger 
bodies than could be concealed under the recumbent lion 
by the fireplace. Up under the sloping roof, between the 
west wall of the garret and the tiles, was a long, narrow 
room, which was probably built at the order of Betty Van 
Lew, that she might have a safe shelter for Union refugees. 
All through the war gossip was rife concerning the Van 
Lews and their movements, and there were many rumors 
that the old mansion had a secret hiding-place, but this 
could never be proved. Besides those whom it sheltered from 
time to time, and the one whose thought had planned it, 
only one other person knew of the existence of that garret 

io8 




MISS VAN LEW BRINGING FOOD TO THE UNION SOLDIER 
SECRET ROOM 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

room, and for long years she was too frightened to tell what 
she had seen in an unexpected moment. 

"Betty Van Lew's niece was visiting in the old house dur- 
ing the blackest period of the struggle between the North 
and South. She was a Httle girl, and her bump of curiosity 
was well developed. After tossing restlessly in bed on a 
hot night, she opened her door in order to get some air. 
To her surprise she saw Aunt Betty tiptoeing through the 
other end of the dark hall, carrying something in her hand. 
With equal stealth the curious child followed the creeping 
figure up through the dark, silent house into the garret — 
saw a hand reach behind an old chest of drawers standing 
against the wall in the garret, and with utter amaze saw 
a black hole in the wall yawn before her eyes. There stood 
her aunt before the opening of the wall, shading with cau- 
tious hand the candle she carried, while facing her stood 
a gaunt, hollow-eyed, bearded man in uniform reaching out 
a greedy hand for the food on the plate. The man saw the 
child's eyes burning through the darkness back of the older 
woman, but she put a chubby finger on her lip, and ran 
away before he had a chance to realize that she was flesh 
and blood and not an apparition. Panting, she ran swiftly 
down the long staircase and, with her heart beating fast 
from fright, flung herself on the bed and buried her head 
in the pillows, lying there for a long time, so it seemed to 
her. Then, scarcely daring to breathe, for fear of being dis- 
covered, she stole out of bed again, opened her door, and 
once more crept up through the silent mansion, this time 
alone. In a moment she stood outside the place where the 
hole in the wall had opened before her amazed vision. Not 
a sound in the great, dark garret! Putting her mouth close 
to the partition she called softly to the soldier, and presently 
a deep voice told her how to press the spring and open the 
secret door. Then, a shivering but determined little white- 

109 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

robed figure, she stood before the yawning chasm and 
talked with the big, Union soldier, who seemed dehghted 
at the sound of his own voice, and years afterward she re- 
membered how he had looked as he said: 

"My! what a spanking you would have got if your aunt 
had turned around!" She did not dare to stand there 
talking to him long, for she was old enough to realize that 
there must be a reason for his being in hiding, and that if 
the secret room should be discovered it might bring unhap- 
piness to her aunt. So in a very few moments the little 
white-gowned figure flitted silently, swiftly down-stairs 
again, and no one knew until years later of that midnight 
excursion of hers — or of the secret room, for which the old 
house was thoroughly searched more than once. 

The winter of 1863-4 was one full of tense situations 
and of many alarms for both Confederates and Unionists. 
In February, after the daring escape of the Federal officers 
from the Libby, there were several alarms, which roused 
young and old to the defense of the city. The enemy made 
a movement to attack the city on the east side, but were 
driven back. Again on the 29th of the month, the bells 
all rang to call men to service. The city battalions re- 
sponded, while General Wilcox ordered all men who were 
in the city on furlough, and all who could bear arms, out 
to protect the city, for Kilpatrick was attempting a raid on 
Richmond, along Brook turnpike. **But while he was 
dreaming of taking Richmond, Gen. Wade Hampton sud- 
denly appeared with his troops and routed him, taking 
three hundred and fifty prisoners, kiUing and wounding 
many, and capturing a large number of horses," 

Then came an event for which the Federal sympathizers, 
and especially those in the Union Secret Service, had pre- 
pared with all the caution and secrecy possible, trying to 
perfect every detail to such a degree that failure would be 

no 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

impossible. To release all Federal prisoners in Richmond — 
this was but a part of the audacious scheme in which Betty 
Van Lew and a Union sympathizer called "Quaker," for 
purposes of disguise, played an important part. 

On the 28th of February, 1864, Col. Ulric Dahlgren left 
Stevensburg with a company of men, selected from brig- 
ades and regiments, as a picked command to attempt a 
desperate undertaking. At Hanovertown he crossed with 
his men, all dressed in Confederate uniforms, confidently 
expecting to get into Richmond by stealth. Unfortunately 
their movements were discovered, and when they rode along 
through the woods near the road at Old Church, in their dis- 
guise, a party of Confederates in ambush opened fire on 
them, captured ninety white men and thirty-five negroes, 
and killed poor little crippled Dahlgren, a small, pale young 
officer, who "rode with crutches strapped, to his saddle, 
and with an artificial leg in the stirrup, as he had lost a 
limb a few months before. His death was as patriotic as 
was his desperate attempt, for bravely his eager band rode 
into the ambush — there was a volley of shots from the 
thicket by the roadside, and the young colonel fell from 
his horse, dead. Some of his men managed to escape, but 
most of them were captured." 

In Dahlgren's pocket was found an order to all of his 
men and officers. To the officers he said: 

"We will have a desperate fight, but stand up to it. 
When it does come, all will be well. We hope to release the 
prisoners from Belle Isle first, and having seen them fairly 
well started, we will cross James River into Richmond, de- 
stroying the bridges after us, and exhorting the released 
prisoners to destroy and burn the hateful city, and do not 
allow the rebel leader Davis and his traitorous crew to 
escape." 

To his guides and runners he said: 
III 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

"Be prepared with oakum, turpentine, and torpedoes. 
Destroy everything that can be used by the rebels. Shoot 
horses and cattle, destroy the railroads and the canal, burn 
the city, leave only the hospitals, and kill Jeff Davis and 
his Cabinet." 

A dangerous plan indeed! Small wonder that when its 
details became known in their diabolical cruelty, the people 
of Richmond cried out for revenge, and the hanging of the 
prisoners; but this was not heeded by the officials, who had 
a saner judgment. 

The raid had failed! Ulric Dahlgren had lost his life in 
a daring attempt to which he was evidently urged by Betty 
Van Lew and the so-called Quaker. Bit by bit the reasons 
for its failure filtered through to the Spy, chief of which 
was the treachery of Dahlgren's guide, by which the forces 
of the raiders, after separating in two parts for the attack, 
lost each other and were never able to unite. The brave, 
crippled young commander riding fearlessly on to within 
five miles of the city into the ambush, his command falling 
under the volley of shots from a hidden enemy — when these 
details reached Betty Van Lew her anguish was unbearable, 
for she had counted on success instead of failure. And now, 
there was work to do! Pacing the floor, she made her plans, 
and with swift daring carried them out. 

Dahlgren was buried on the very spot where he fell; but 
a few days later the body was taken to Richmond by 
order of the Confederate government, where it lay for some 
hours at the York River railroad station. Then, at mid- 
night, it was taken away by the city officials and buried, 
no one knew where. But Betty Van Lew says in her diary: 
"The heart of every Unionist was stirred to its depths . . . 
and to discover the hidden grave and remove his honored 
dust to friendly care was decided upon." 

Admiral Dahlgren, father of the unfortunate colonel, 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

sent one hundred dollars in gold to Jefferson Davis, asking 
that the body of his son be sent to him. The order was 
at once given to the chief of police, with the added com- 
mand to have the body placed in a decent coffin; but when 
the police went to carry out the order, taking with them 
the soldiers who had buried Dahlgren, the grave was empty! 

Through the daring act of Secret Service agents, doubtless, 
and of Betty Van Lew's assistants, on a bitter cold and 
stormy night, two Union sympathizers went out to the 
grave, the location of which had been cleverly discovered 
by the Unionists. The body of young Dahlgren was quickly 
taken up and carried to a work-shop belonging to Mr. 
William Rowley, who lived a short distance in the country. 
He watched over the remains all night, and during the 
hours of darkness more than one Union sympathizer stole out 
to the shop to pay their last respects to the pathetic young 
victim of the attempted raid. At dawn the body was placed 
in a metallic coffin and put on a wagon, under a load of young 
peach-trees, which entirely concealed the casket. Then 
Mr. Rowley, who was a man of iron nerves and great cour- 
age, jumped to the driver's seat and bravely drove the 
wagon with its precious freight out of Richmond, past the 
pickets, without the visible trembhng of an eye-lash to 
betray his dangerous mission. 

"As he had feared, at the last picket post, he was stopped 
and challenged. His wagon must be searched. Was his 
brave hazard lost? As he waited for the search to be 
made which would sign his death warrant, one of the guards 
recognized him as an old acquaintance, and began a Hvely 
conversation with him. Other wagons came up, were 
searched, and went on. Presently the Lieutenant came 
from his tent and called to the guard to 'Search that man 
and let him go!' 

"The guard looked with interest at the well-packed load, 
113 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

and remarked that it would be a shame to tear up those 
trees. 

"Rowley gave no sign of fear or nervousness. Non- 
chalantly he said that he had not expected them to be dis- 
turbed, but that he knew a soldier's duty. 

"Another wagon drove up, was searched, and sent on. 
Again the Lieutenant gave an order to 'search the man^ 
so that he can go!' Could anything save him now? Row^f 
ley wondered. If he had not been a born actor he would 
have shown some sign of the terrible strain he was under 
as he waited for the discovery of his hidden burden. 

"A moment of agonizing suspense, then the guard said, in 
a low voice, *Go on!' and Rowley, without search, went on 
with his concealed burden. 

"Meanwhile, two accompHces had flanked the picket, and 
they presently joined Rowley and showed him the way to 
a farm not far away, where a grave was hastily dug and the 
coffin lowered into it. Two loyal women helped to fill it 
in, and planted over it one of the peach-trees which had so 
successfully prevented discovery. So ended the Dahlgren 
raid — and so the Spy had been foiled in one of the most 
daring and colossal plots with which she was connected. 
Because of the stealing of the young Colonel's body, Ad- 
miral Dahlgren's wish could not be complied with until 
after the war." 

The raid had failed, and with the return of spring, the 
Union Army was closing in around Richmond, which made 
it an easier matter for Betty Van Lew to communicate 
with the Union generals, especially with General Grant, 
through his Chief of Secret Service. As the weary months 
wore away, more than once the Spy was in an agony of sus- 
pense, when it seemed as if some one of her plots was about 
to bring a revelation of her secret activities; as if disclosure 
by some traitor was inevitable; but in every case she was 

114 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

saved from danger, and was able to continue her work for 
the Union. 

And now the Confederate forces were ransacking the 
South in search of horses, of which they were sorely in need. 
The Spy quickly hid her one remaining animal in the 
smoke - house, but it was not safe there. Confederate 
agents were prowling about the city, searching every build- 
ing in which a horse could be secreted. In the dead of night 
Betty Van Lew led her steed, with feet wrapped in cloths 
to prevent noise, from the smoke-house into the old man- 
sion itself, and stabled it in the study, where she had cov- 
ered the floor with a thick layer of straw to deaden any 
sound of stamping hoofs. And the horse in his palatial 
residence was not discovered. 

General Grant was now at the head of all the armies 
of the United States, and to him was given the duty of at- 
tacking Lee. General Sherman was at the head of a large 
force in the West, and his duty was to crush the force of 
General Johnston. 

On the fourth of May, 1864, each general began his task. 
Sherman attacked Johnston, and step by step drove him 
through the mountains to Atlanta, where Johnston was re- 
moved, and his army from that time was led by General 
Hood. After trying in vain to beat Sherman, he turned 
and started toward Tennessee, hoping to draw Sherman 
after him. But he did not succeed; Sherman sent Thomas, 
the "Rock of Chickamauga," to deal with Hood, and in 
December he destroyed Hood's army in a terrible battle 
at Nashville. Meanwhile Sherman started to march from 
Atlanta to the sea, his army advancing in four columns, 
covering a stretch of country miles wide. They tore up 
the railroads, destroyed the bridges, and finally occupied 
Savannah. There Sherman stayed for a month, during 
which his soldiers became impatient. Whenever he passed 
9 115 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

them they would shout: "Uncle Billy, I guess Grant is 
waiting for us in Richmond!" And on the first of Feb- 
ruary they resumed their march to North Carolina. 

Grant, meanwhile, had begun his attack on Lee, on the 
same day that Sherman had marched against Johnston. 
Starting from a place called Culpepper Court House, Grant's 
army entered the Wilderness, a tract of country covered 
with a dense growth of oak and pine, and after much hard 
fighting closed in around Richmond, laying siege to Peters- 
burg. Bravely Lee and his gallant men resisted the Union 
forces until April, 1865, when, foreseeing the tragic end 
ahead, Lee left Richmond and marched westward. Grant 
followed, and on the ninth of April Lee surrendered his 
army at Appomattox Court House. Johnston surrendered 
to Sherman near Raleigh, in North CaroHna, about two 
weeks later, and in May Jefferson Davis was taken prisoner. 

This ended the war. The Confederacy fell to pieces, and 
the Union was saved. "In the hearts of all Union sympa- 
thizers was a passionate exultation that the United States 
was once again under one government; but what a day of 
sorrowing was that for loyal Southerners!" 

It is said that on Sunday, the second of April, when the 
end was in sight, children took their places in the Sunday 
Schools, and congregations gathered as usual in the churches, 
united in their fervent prayers for their country and their 
soldiers. The worshipping congregation of St. Paul's 
Church was disturbed by the sight of a messenger who 
walked up the middle aisle to the pew where Jefferson 
Davis was sitting, spoke hastily to him, then went briskly 
out of the church. What could it mean.? 

"Ah!" says an historian, "the most sadly memorable day 
in Richmond's history was at hand . . . the day which for 
four long years had hung over the city like a dreadful night- 
mare had come at last. The message had come from Gen- 

ii6 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

eral Lee of the order to evacuate Richmond! Beautiful 
Richmond to be evacuated ! It was Hke the knell of doom. 

"President Davis and the other officers of the Confederate 
government hastily prepared to leave, and to carry such 
records and stores as they were able. The officers of the 
State government and the soldiers were preparing to march. 
The news of the evacuation swept over the city, spreading 
dismay and doom as it went. The people began to collect 
their valuables and hide them or pack them to carry to a 
place of safety, if any such place could be found; and 
throughout the city there were scenes of indescribable con- 
fusion. The streets were blocked with furniture and other 
goods which people were trying to move. All government 
store-houses were thrown open, and what could not be car- 
ried away was left to be plundered by those who rushed 
in to get bacon, clothing, or whatever they could take. 
The Confederate troops were rapidly moving toward the 
South. ... At one o'clock it became known that under the 
law of the Confederate Congress all the tobacco and cotton 
in the city had been ordered burned to keep it out of the 
hands of the enemy. In vain the Mayor sent a committee 
to remonstrate against burning the warehouses. No heed 
was paid to the order, and soon tongues of lurid flame were 
leaping from building to building, until the conflagration 
was beyond all control. Men and women were like frenzied 
demons in their eff'orts to save property; there was terrific 
looting. Wagons and carts were hastily loaded with goods; 
some carried their things in wheel-barrows, some in their 
arms. Women tugged at barrels of flour, and children vainly 
tried to move boxes of tobacco. The sidewalks were strewn 
with silks, satins, bonnets, fancy goods, shoes, and all sorts 
of merchandise. There was no law and there were no 
officers; there was only confusion, helpless despair on every 
side. Before sunrise there was a terrific explosion which 

117 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

shook the whole city; the magazine back of the poorhouse 
was blown up. ... At six o'clock in the morning the evacua- 
tion was complete, and the railroad bridges were set on fire." 

The conflagration was at its height when the vanguard 
of the Federal army entered the city, the cavalry galloping 
at full speed. 

"Which is the way to the Capitol?" they shouted, then 
dashed up Governor Street, while a bitter wail rose from 
the people of Richmond. "The Yankees! The Yankees! 
Oh, the Yankees have taken our city!" 

As the cry went up, a United States flag was unfurled 
over the Capitol, At once General Weitzel took command 
and ordered the soldiers to stop all pillaging and restore 
order to the city; but it was many hours before the com- 
mand could be fully carried out. Then and only then did 
the exhausted, panic-stricken, heart-sick people fully realize 
the hideous disaster which had come to their beloved city; 
only when they saw the destruction and desolation wrought 
by the fire did they fully grasp the awful meaning of the 
cry, "On to Richmond!" which for four long years had been 
the watch-word of the Union forces. 

And how fared it with the Federal Spy during those hours 
of anguish for all true Southerners ? Betty Van Lew, who 
had been in close touch with the Union generals, had for 
some time foreseen the coming chmax of the four years' 
struggle, and weeks earher she had sent north to General 
Butler for a huge American flag, eighteen feet long by nine 
wide, which in some unknown way was successfully carried 
into Richmond without detection by the picket guard, and 
safely secreted in the hidden chamber under the Van Lew 
roof. 

And now General Lee had surrendered. Virginia was 
again to be a State of the Union; came a messenger fleet 
of foot, cautious of address, bringing breathless tidings to 

ii8 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

the Spy: **Your house is to be burned — the Confederate 
soldiers say so. What can you do to prevent it?" 

Even as she Hstened to his excited words, Betty Van Lew's 
heart was throbbing with joyful excitement, despite the up- 
roar in the city from the constant explosion of shells, the 
sound of the blowing up of gun-boats in the harbor, and of 
the powder magazines, which was shaking the foundations 
of the city, as red flames leaped across the black sky. Even 
then there was in the heart of the Spy a wild exultation. 
"Oh, army of my country, how glorious was your welcome !" 
she exclaims in her diary. 

She heard the news that her home was about to be burned. 
With head erect and flashing eyes she went out alone and 
stood on the white-pillared portico, a fearless little figure, 
defying the mob who were gathering to destroy the old 
mansion which was so dear to her. 

"I know you — and you — and you!" she cried out, calling 
them each by name, and pointing at one after another. 
"General Grant will be in this city within an hour; if this 
house is harmed your house shall be burned by noon!" At 
the fearless words, one by one they turned, muttering, and 
slunk away, and the Van Lew house was neither burned nor 
harmed in any way. 

The Union troops were coming near now, marching to 
the center of the city. As the long, dusty line of men in 
blue swung into Main Street, Betty Van Lew ran up to the 
secret room under the garret roof, drew out the great flag 
for which she had sent in anticipation of this day, and 
when the Union soldiers marched past the historic old 
mansion, the Stars and Stripes were waving proudly over 
its portico. The Confederacy was no more! 

Despite her bravery, Betty Van Lew's Hfe was now in 
danger. There was urgent need of special protection for 
her. Feeling against the northern victors was at fever 

119 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

height in poor, desolated, defeated Richmond, and it is 
small wonder that one born in their city, who yet stood 
openly and fearlessly against all that the Southerners held 
sacred, should have been despised, and worse than that. 
Reahzing her danger, and knowing the priceless service she 
had rendered the Union generals in the four long years of 
the war. Colonel Parke, with a force of men, was sent to 
protect the Spy. To the General's utter amazement they did 
not find her in the old house. She was found in the deserted 
Capitol, ransacking it for documents which she feared might 
be destroyed and which would be a loss to the Government. 

As "Crazy Bet" and as a Union Spy, Betty Van Lew's 
long and remarkable service of her country was ended. 
The Confederacy was dissolved, and again the flag of the 
United States of America could rightfully wave from every 
building in the land. At the beginning of the war, when 
Betty took on herself the role of Federal Secret Service 
agent, she was hght of heart, alert of body and mind. Now, 
for four years, she had born a heavy burden of fear and 
of crushing responsibihty, for the sake of a cause for which 
she was wilHng to sacrifice comfort, wealth and other things 
which the average woman counts dear, and her heart and 
brain were weary. 

Two weeks after the inauguration of Grant as President 
of the United States, as a reward for her faithful service, 
he appointed Betty Van Lew postmistress of Richmond. 
Well she knew that her enemies would declare the appoint- 
ment a reward for her services against the Confederacy, 
and that it would but make her more of an aHen in Rich- 
mond than ever she had been before. But she was des- 
perately poor, so she accepted the position and for eight 
years filled it efficiently. When she came in contact with 
old friends from time to time in a business way, they were 
poHtely cold, and in her diary she writes: 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

"I live, as entirely distinct from the citizens as if I were 
plague-stricken. Rarely, very rarely, is our door-bell ever 
rung by any but a pauper or those desiring my service/* 
She adds: "September, 1875, my Mother was taken from 
me by death. We had not friends enough to be pall- 
bearers." 

When Grant had been succeeded by Hayes as President 
of the United States, the one-time Spy was obliged to ask 
for his aid : 

"I am hounded down" — she wrote to his private Secre- 
tary. "I never, never was so bitterly persecuted; ask the 
President to protect me from this unwarranted, unmerited, 
and unprecedented persecution." 

From her own point of view, and from that of those who 
fought for the abohtion of slavery and the preservation of 
the Union, Betty Van Lew's persecution was indeed "un- 
warranted and unmerited." But there was another side 
to the matter. Ehzabeth Van Lew, although the child of a 
Northern mother, was also the daughter of John Van Lew, 
one of Richmond's foremost citizens. The loyalty of the 
Southerners to the Confederacy and to one another, from 
their view-point, was praiseworthy, and there is every rea- 
son why they should have shunned one of Richmond's 
daughters, who not only approved the cause of the hated 
Yankees, but who aided the Union generals in their deter- 
mination to sweep "On to Richmond, to the defeat of the 
Confederacy." 

What to one was loyalty, to the other was treason — what 
to the Spy was a point of honor, to her old friends was 
her open and lasting disgrace, and never can the two view- 
points be welded into one, despite the symbol of Union 
which floats over North and South, making the United 
States of America one and "indivisible, now and forever 1" 

Betty Van Lew remained postmistress of Richmond for 
121 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

eight years, then she was removed, and there were black 
years of poverty and loneliness for her, as she had not laid 
by a dollar for a day of want, but had given lavishly to 
all in need, especially to the negroes. She was not able to 
sell her valuable but unproductive real estate, and was 
reduced to actual need. "I tell you really and solemnly," 
she confesses to her diary, "I have suffered for necessary 
food, I have not one cent in the world. I have stood the 
brunt alone of a persecution that I believe no other person 
in the country has endured. ... I honestly think that the 
Government should see that I was sustained." 

At last she was given a clerkship in the Post-Office Depart- 
ment at Washington, but after two years this was taken 
from her, probably for poHtical reasons, and it was recom- 
mended that she be given a clerkship of a lower grade. 
This was done, and although she was cut by the injustice 
of the act, she clung patiently to her only means of support. 
Two weeks later, it is said that a Northern newspaper con- 
tained an editorial which spoke sneeringly of "A Trouble- 
some Rehc," and ended with, "We draw the line at Miss 
Van Lew." Even though she had not a penny in the 
world, she could not bear the sting of that, and she wrote 
her resignation, and went back to the great, lonely house 
on Church Hill a heart-broken, pitiable woman, who had 
given her all for what she believed to be the cause of right 
and justice. 

But she could not live in the old mansion alone, and with- 
out food or money. In despair she wrote a letter to a friend 
in the North, a relative of Col. Paul Revere, whom she had 
helped when he was a prisoner in the Libby. She had to 
borrow a stamp from an old negro to send the letter, and 
even worse to her than that was the necessity of reveahng 
her desperate pHght. But she need not have felt as she did. 
As soon as the letter reached its destination there was a 

122 



ELIZABETH VAN LEW 

hurried indignation meeting of those Boston men who knew 
what she had done for the Union, and immediately and 
gladly they provided an ample annuity for her, which 
placed her beyond all need for the remaining years of her 
life. This was, of course, a great relief; but even so, it could 
not ease the burden of her lonely isolation. 

"No one will walk with us on the street," she writes; 
"no one will go with us anywhere. ... It grows worse and 
worse as the years roll on. . . ." 

And so the weary months and years went by, and at last, 
in the old mansion with its haunting memories, nursed by 
an aged negress to whom she had given freedom years be- 
fore, Elizabeth Van Lew died. Among her effects there 
was found on a torn bit of paper this paragraph: 

"If I am entitled to the name of 'Spy' because I was in 
the Secret Service, I accept it wilHngly, but it will hereafter 
have to my mind a high and honorable significance. For 
my loyalty to my country, I have two beautiful names; 
here I am called 'Traitor,' farther North a *Spy,' instead 
of the honored name of Faithful." 

And well may she be called "Faithful" by both friend 
and enemy, for she gave freely of youth and strength, of 
wealth and her good name, of all that human beings hold 
most sacred, for that which was to her a consecrated and 
a just cause. 

In the Shockhoe Hill Cemetery of Richmond, there is to 
be seen a bronze tablet, erected to the noble woman who 
worked tirelessly and without fitting reward for a cause 
which she beheved to be righteous. The inscription on the 
tablet reads: 

Elizabeth L. Van Lew 

i8i8 1900. 

She risked everything that is dear to man — 

friends, fortune, comfort, health, life it- 

123 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

self; all for the one absorbing desire of her 
heart — that slavery might be abolished and 
the Union preserved. 



This Boulder 



from the Capitol Hill in Boston, is a tribute 
from Massachusetts friends. 

Elizabeth Van Lew was indeed a Spy working against 
the city of her birth, and the friends of her love and loyalty, 
— a traitor in one sense of the word; but above all was she 
tireless in working for her highest ideals, and so is she worthy 
of respect and honor wherever the Stars and Stripes float free 
over united America. 



IDA LEWIS: THE GIRL WHO KEPT LIME ROCK 
BURNING; A HEROIC LIFE-SAVER 

FATHER has the appointment! We are going to live 
on the island, and you must all row over to see me 
very often. Isn't it wonderful?" 

A bright-faced young girl, surrounded by a group of school- 
mates, poured out her piece of news in such an eager torrent 
of words that the girls were as excited as the teller of the tale, 
and there was a chorus of: "Wonderful! Of course we will! 
What fun to live in that fascinating place! Let's go and 
see it now!" 

No sooner decided than done, and in a very short time 
there was a fleet of rowboats led by that of Ida Lewis, on 
their way to the island in Baker's Bay, where the Lime 
Rock Light stood, of which Captain Hosea Lewis had just 
been appointed keeper. 

^ Ida, Captain Hosea's daughter, was born at Newport, 
Rhode Island, on the 25th of February, 1841, and was sent 
to school there as soon as she was old enough. She was a 
quick-witted, sure-footed, firm-handed girl from her earliest 
childhood, and a great lover of the sea in all its changing 
phases. Often instead of playing games on land with her 
mates she would beguile some old fisherman to take her out 
in his fishing dory, and eagerly help him make his hauls, 
and by the time she was fourteen years old she was an expert 
in handling the oars, and as tireless a swimmer as could be 
found in all Newport. 

''^And now her father had been appointed keeper of the 

125 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

Lime Rock Light, the "Ida Lewis" light, as it came to 
be known in later years, and the girl's home was no longer 
to be on terra firma, but on the rock-ribbed island where 
the lighthouse stood, whose beacon-light cast strong, steady 
rays across Baker's Bay, to the greater Narragansett Bay, 
of which it is only an arm. 

The flock of girls in their boats rowed hard and fast across 
the silvery water with a steady plash, plash of the dipping 
oars in the calm bay, and ever Ida Lewis was in the lead, 
heading toward the island with a straight course, and keep- 
ing a close watch for the rocks of which the Bay was full. 
She would turn her head, toss back her hair, and call out in 
ringing tones to the flock, "'Ware, shoals!" and obediently 
they would turn as she turned, follow where she led. Soon 
her boat ran its sharp bow against the rocky ledge to which 
they had been steering, and with quick confidence Ida 
sprang ashore, seized the painter, and drew her boat to a 
mooring, while the rest of the fleet came to the landing and 
one after another the girls jumped ashore. Then up the 
rocky path to the lighthouse filed Ida and her friends, 
eager to inspect the queer place which was to be Ida's home. 

"How perfectly lovely! How odd! Oh, how I wish I 
were going to live here! Ida, you are lucky — But just 
think how the wind will howl around the house in a storm! 
Will your father ever let you tend the light, do you think.?" 

The questions were not answered, and those who asked 
them did not expect a response. They all chattered on at 
the same time, while they inspected every nook and corner 
of their friend's new home. It was a small place, that house 
on Lime Rock, built to house the light-keeper's family, but 
one which could well answer to the name of "home" to 
one as fond of the sea as was Ida Lewis. On the narrow 
promontory, with the waves of the quiet bay lapping its 
rocky shores, the tv^o-story white house stood like a sea-gull 

126 



IDA LEWIS 

poised for flight. A living-room, with wide windows opening 
out on the bay it had, and simple bedrooms where one could 
be lulled to sleep by the lapping of waters on every side, 
while at the front of the house stood the tower from which 
the light sent its searching beams to guide mariners trying 
to enter the Newport harbor. 

The girls climbed the spiral staircase leading up to the 
light, and looked with wonder not unmixed with awe at the 
great lamp which was always filled and trimmed for imme- 
diate use — saw the large bell which tolled continuously 
during storm or fog; then they went down again to the sun- 
shiny out of doors, and were shown the boat-house, not so 
far back of the light that it would be difficult to reach in a 
storm. 

It was all a fairy residence to those young girls, and little 
could they imagine that bright-eyed Ida, who was about to 
become a lighthouse-keeper's daughter, was to be known in 
later years as the Grace DarHng of America, because of her 
heroic life on that small promontory in Baker's Bay! 

The Lewis family settled in the lighthouse as speedily as 
possible, and when their simple household goods were ar- 
ranged, the island home was a pretty and a comfortable 
place, where the howling winds of winter or the drenching, 
depressing fogs of all seasons would have no chance to take 
from the homelike cheer inside, no matter how severe they 
were. Books, pictures, a large rag rug, a model of a sloop, 
made by Captain Hosea, family portraits belonging to his 
wife — whose girlhood had been spent on Block Island as the 
daughter of Dr. Aaron C. Wiley, and to whose ears the 
noise of wind and waves was the music of remembered girl- 
hood — all these added to the simple interior of the light- 
house, while out of doors there was, as Ida said, "All the 
sea, all the sky, all the joy of the great free world, and plenty 
of room to enjoy it!" 

127 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

And enjoy it she certainly did, although she had to rise 
early and eat the plainest of fare, for the pay of a Hghthouse- 
keeper would not allow of many luxuries. At night she was 
in bed and fast asleep before her friends on land had even 
thought of leaving their amusements or occupations for sleep. 
It was a healthy life, and Ida grew broad of shoulders, 
heavier in weight and as muscular as a boy. Every morning 
she inspected her boat, and if it needed bailing out or clean- 
ing she was at work on it before breakfast; then at the 
appointed hour she was ready to row her younger brothers 
and sisters to the mainland to school. Like a little house- 
keeper, after dropping them, she went to market in Newport 
for her mother, and sometimes her boat would be seen cross- 
ing the bay more than once a morning, if there were many 
supplies to be carried over; then the children must be rowed 
back after school hours. Small wonder that Ida came to 
know every rock in the bay, and was able to steer her boat 
safely in and out among the many obstructions which were 
a peril to less intelHgent mariners. 

Towering over all neighboring buildings, the Lime Rock 
Light stood on its rocky ledge, clearly seen by men on vessels 
entering or leaving Narragansett Bay, and by officers and 
men at Fort Adams, as well as by those who lived within 
sight of the light, and it came to be a daily word, "Watch 
for the girl," for Ida sturdily rowed across the bay, no 
matter how furious the storm, how dense the fog. 

Late one afternoon, after visiting a friend, she was rowing 
from Newport at the hour when a snub-nosed schooner sailed 
slowly into the harbor on its way from New York to New- 
port with every sign of distress visible among its crew, for 
not even the Captain knew where lay the channel of safety 
between the perilous rocks, and the fog was thick. 

Ida saw the schooner, and guessed its dilemma. Rowing 
as close to it as she could, she signaled to the captain to 

128 




IDA LEWIS 



IDA LEWIS 

follow her, and her words were carried to him on the heavy 
air: 

"Come on! Don't be afraid!" 

Obediently he went on, as the girl directed, and reached 
the dock of his destination in safety, where he shook hands 
heartily with his bright-eyed guide before she pushed off 
again for her island home. Later he spread the news among 
his mates that there was a **boss in Baker's Bay who knew 
what she was about," and his advice was, "In danger look 
for the dark-haired girl in a row-boat and follow her." 

This came to be the accepted fashion among captains of 
the schooners which in that day plied so frequently between 
New York and Newport, and many a letter of thanks, or 
a more substantial remembrance, did she receive from some 
one she had piloted across the angry bay. 

Soldiers trying to reach the fort, or sailors anxious to row 
out to their ships, always found a ready ferry-woman in 
Ida, and before the Lewis family had been in the light- 
house for many months she was one of the most popular 
young persons on land or sea within many miles — for who 
had ever before seen such a seaworthy young mariner as she, 
or where could such a fund of nautical wisdom be discovered 
as was stored in her clear head? This question was asked 
in affectionate pride by more than one good seaman who had 
become Ida's intimate friend at the close of her first year 
on Lime Rock, while all the skippers had an intense admira- 
tion for the girl who not only handled her life-boat with a 
man's skill, but who kept the light filled and trimmed and 
burning to save her father steps, now that he was crippled 
with rheumatism. 

The heat of summer had given place to the crisp coolness 
of a glorious October day as Ida was just starting to row to 
the mainland to do an errand for her mother. She looked 
out of the window, across the bay, to see if there was any 

I2Q 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

prospect of a shower, and her keen eyes glimpsed a sight that 
made her hurry for the glass. Looking through it, she gave 
a sharp cry and rushed to the door. 

"What is it, daughter.^*" the captain queried. 

But Ida was already out of the house. So he hobbled 
slowly to the window and, with the use of the glass Ida had 
dropped, saw his energetic child push the life-boat out of its 
shelter, drag it to the shore, jump in and row rapidly to the 
middle of the bay where a pleasure-boat had capsized. 
There were four men in the water, struggling with the high 
waves which momentarily threatened to overcome them. 
When Ida reached them in her Hfe-boat, two were clinging 
to the overturned craft, and two were making a desperate 
effort to swim toward shore. The watching captain, through 
his glass, saw Ida row close to the capsized boat and with 
strong, steady hands pull and drag one after another of the 
men into her boat. When they were all in, she rowed with 
sure strokes back across the stormy water, carrying her load 
of human freight to shore and receiving their thanks as 
modestly as if she had not done a remarkable deed for a 
girl of seventeen. A very fine piece of work was Ida's 
first rescue, but by no means her last. She loved to row out 
in a storm and dare the winds and waves to do their worst, 
and she grew to think her mission a clear one, as life-saver 
ofthe light. 

A year after her first experience as life-saver, her father, 
who had recently been paralyzed, died, and so capable 
was his eighteen-year-old daughter in doing his duties that 
she was allowed to continue in the care of the light until 
her father's successor should be appointed. When the news 
came to her, Ida's eyes gleamed, as if in anticipation of some 
happy event, and to her devoted Newfoundland dog she 
exclaimed: "We love it too well to give it up to anybody; 
don't we, doggie dear ? We will succeed to ourselves !" And 

130 



IDA LEWIS 

she did succeed to herself, being finally made keeper of the 
light by special act of Congress — the appointment being 
conferred upon her in 1879 by General Sherman as a compli- 
ment to her ability and bravery; doubtless because of the 
recommendation of those fishermen and seamen whose re- 
spect for the brave girl was great and who did not wish the 
government to remove her. In any case, she was chosen for 
the responsible position as successor to her father, and to 
herself, as she quaintly put it, and more and more she be- 
came devoted to every stone of the small promontory, and 
to every smallest duty in connection with her work and her 
island home. 

Winter and summer passed in the regular routine of her 
daily duties as keeper of the light, and every time she lighted 
the big lamp whose beams shone out over the waters with 
such comforting gleams for watching mariners she was filled 
with assurance that hers was the greatest and most interest- 
ing mission in the world. 

Winter came with its howling winds and frozen bay. A 
terrific storm was blowing from the north; snow was driv- 
ing from every direction and it was hardly possible to stand 
on one's feet because of the fury of the gale. Ida lighted her 
beacon of warning to ships at sea, and rejoiced as she saw 
its glowing rays flash out over the turbulent waters. Then 
she went down into the cozy kitchen and speedily ate 
a simple supper prepared by her mother. How the wind 
shrieked around the little house on the island! Ida has- 
tily raised the curtain, to see how heavily it was storm- 
ing, and she gave an exclamation of surprise; then ran 
up the spiral stairway to the tower, where in the rays of 
the steady light she could see more clearly. Far out on 
the waves, beyond the frozen surface of the inner bay, she 
saw a Hght skiff bobbing up and down, the toy of wind and 
wave; in it by the aid of her powerful glass she could see a 
10 131 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

stiff, still figure. A man had been overcome by the cold — 
he would die if he were not rescued at once. Quick as a 
flash she was down-stairs, in the boat-house, had pulled out 
the boat, although it was a hard task in such a storm even 
for one as strong as she, and soon was on her way across 
that part of the bay which was not frozen. Up and down on 
the storm-tossed waves her craft tossed, now righting itself, 
now almost submerged — but Ida pulled on with strong 
sure strokes, and drew alongside of the bobbing skiff — took 
hold of it, drew it to the side of her own boat, and, looking 
into the face of the man in it, saw that he must be rowed 
to land as quickly as possible if he were to be saved. She 
saved him. When he regained consciousness he found him- 
self propped up before the warm fire in the lighthouse 
kitchen, with the most delicious feeling of languor stealing 
through his whole frame, instead of the cruel numbness 
which had been the last sensation before he became uncon- 
scious. And it added materially to his enjoyment that a 
bright-eyed, dark-haired young woman hovered around him, 
ministering to his wants in a dehghtful way. 

The young lighthouse-keeper's next rescue was of a soldier 
from the Fort Adams garrison who, in trying to cross the 
harbor in a small boat, was thrown into the bay by the 
force of the waves, and would have been drowned, as he 
was not a good swimmer, had not Ida's keen eyes seen him 
and she gone instantly to his rescue. He was a heavy man, 
and Ida tried in vain to lift him into her boat, but was 
not strong enough. What should she do? The great waves 
were lashing against the boats in such a fury that what 
was done must be done quickly. With ready wit she threw 
a rope around his body under the arm-pits, and towed him 
to shore as hard and fast as she could, at the same time 
watching closely that his head did not go under water. 
It was a man-sized job, but Ida accomplished it, and, seeing 

132 



IDA LEWIS 

his exhaustion when she reached shore, she called two men, 
who aided in resuscitating him. 

"Who towed him in?'* asked one of them, who was a 
stranger to Ida. 

"I did," she replied. 

"Ah, go on!" he said, incredulously. "A girl like you 
doing that! Tell me something I can believe!" 

Ida laughed and turned to the other man. "He will tell 
you what I have done and what I can do, even if I am a girl!" 
she said; and the seaman, just landed from a coastwise 
steamer, looked at her with admiration tinged with awe. 
"She's the boss of these parts," said his companion, "and 
the prettiest life-saver on the coast. Just try it yourself 
and see!" 

As the man did not seem to care about risking his life 
to have it saved, even by Ida Lewis, he went his way, but 
whenever his steamer touched at Newport after that he 
always paid his respects to the "prettiest life-saver on the 
coast." 

Twelve months went by, with ever-increasing fame for 
the girl keeper of Lime Rock Light who had become one of 
the features of the vicinity, to meet and talk with whom 
many a tourist lengthened a stay in Newport, and Ida 
enjoyed meeting them and showing them her light and her 
home and her boat and her dog and all her other treasures, 
while in return they told her many interesting things about 
the great world beyond the beams of her light. 

Up in the tower one day — it was in the autumn of 1867 — 
she was looking out over the bay, fearing trouble for some 
vessel, as a furious storm was raging, and the wind was 
blowing snow in such white sheets that few captains could 
make their way among the rocks of the harbor without 
difficulty, while any one foolish enough to set out in a row- 
boat would find it impossible to reach the shore. 

133 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

Out flashed the rays of the beacon-light, and far oflT on 
the tempestuous waves Ida saw what seemed to be two 
men In a boat with a load of sheep. The wind was howling, 
and borne on Its shrieking Ida fancied she could hear the 
moans of the men and the frightened beasts. 

One quick look at her light, to make sure that it was all 
right to leave, then down ran the life-saver to her self- 
appointed work. Never was there such a gale blowing In 
Narragansett Bay, and In the smaller bay white-capped 
waves and gusts of wind and rain added to biting, stinging 
cold made It almost Impossible even for sturdy Ida to 
struggle out from the boat-house, to launch her rowboat 
on the stormy sea. But she never gave in to any obstacles, 
and soon her little boat could be seen making slow headway 
across the bay. In the direction of the drifting men and 
their cargo of sheep. 

Now the wind drove her back, now It blew her small craft 
to one side and the other, but steadily, though slowly, she 
gained on herself, and at last she reached the men, who 
could make no headway In the teeth of such a gale, and were 
simply drifting and watching Ida's acts with incredulous 
wonder. A young girl — come to rescue them in such a storm 
as this! Quickly she helped them to chmb into her boat, 
and took up her oars. One man protested. "But the 
sheep," he said. 

"Leave them to me!" commanded Ida, sternly, rowing as 
fast as she could, her dark hair streaming over her shoulders 
and her cheeks rose-red from the stinging cold of the air. 
Neither man ventured another word. Reaching the rocky 
coast of the Island, Ida sprang out after them, pointed out 
the kitchen door, and said: 

"Stay In there and get warm till I come back." 

"But — " began one. 

Ida was already out of hearing, and the men whose lives 
134 



IDA LEWIS 

had been saved did as they had been told, and in the warm 
kitchen awaited the coming of their rescuer. In an hour 
there were footsteps outside, the door opened, and a glowing 
girl stepped in out of the bitter gale, stamping her almost 
frozen feet and holding out her benumbed hands to the 
glowing fire. 

"Well, they are all safe on land," she said. "I think they 
had better be left in the boat-house overnight. The wind 
is in the right quarter for a clear day to-morrow; then you 
can put out again." 

There was no reply. A girl like this keeper of the Lime 
Rock Light left no room for pretty compliments, but made 
a man feel that if she could do such deeds with simple cour- 
age, what could he not do with such a spirit as hers! No one 
ever paid Ida Lewis higher praise than these two rough 
men when, on leaving, they each gripped her hand and the 
spokesman said: 

"Whenever I see your light shining, I'll put up a prayer 
for its keeper, and thanking you for what you did for us, 
ma'am — if my little one's a girl, she will be Ida Lewis!" 

Up spoke his comrade: "My daughter's twelve year old 
come September next, and I hope she'll be your kind. It 'd 
make a new kind of a world to have such!" 

While such praise did not turn Ida's very level head, or 
make her vain, it gave her a deep satisfaction and a tremen- 
dous sense of responsibility in her beloved occupation. 

Two years went by, and Ida Lewis was a name which 
commanded respect throughout Rhode Island because of 
her work for the government, and there was scarcely a 
day when she did not direct some wandering boatman or 
give valuable aid to a distressed seafarer, but from the day 
she brought the men and their load of sheep to shore it was 
a year before there was any need of such aid as she had given 
them. Then on a day never to be forgotten by those to 

135 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

whose rescue she went, she saw two of the soldiers who were 
stationed at Fort Adams rowing toward the fort from 
Newport. A young lad was at the oars, and he showed 
that he was not in any way experienced as a boatman. A 
sudden squall overtook the small boat in mid-bay, and, as 
Ida Lewis looked at it, it capsized. At the moment Ida 
happened to be without hat or coat, or even shoes. Rushing 
to the boat-house, she took her staunch friend to the shore, 
and launched out in the wild squall under an inky-black sky; 
and she had to row against a wind that drove her back time 
after time. Finally she reached the wreck, only to find the 
boy had gone under. The soldiers were clinging to the 
bobbing keel of the boat, and Ida grasped them with a 
firm, practised hand, while at the same time managing to 
keep her own boat near enough so that when a wave washed 
them together she was able to help the exhausted soldiers 
to climb into it. They were unable to speak, and one of 
them was so exhausted that she feared she could not get him 
to land in time to resuscitate him. 

With wind-blown hair, and eyes dark with determination, 
she rowed as she had never rowed before, and at last her boat 
touched the rocky home ledge. Out she jumped, and in less 
time than it takes to tell it, she had the men before her 
fire, wrapped in blankets. One of them was unconscious 
for such a long time that his rescuer was wondering what was 
best to do — to take the risk of leaving him and row to the 
mainland for a doctor, or to take the risk of doing for him 
with her own inexperienced hands. Just then his blue eyes 
opened, and after a drink of stimulant he slowly revived, 
and at last was able to talk coherently. The storm was still 
raging and the men remained on the lighthouse ledge with 
the girl rescuer, for whom they showed open admiration; 
then, when the clouds lifted and the moon shone wanly 
through the rift, they took their own boat and rowed off 

136 



IDA LEWIS 

to the fort. But they were staunch friends of Ida Lewis 
from that day, and she enjoyed many a chat with them, 
and had more than one pleasant afternoon on the mainland 
with them when they were off duty. 

At another time she was out in her boat in a bad storm, 
when through the dense darkness she heard cries of, "Help! 
help!" and, rowing in the direction from which the cries 
came, she found three men in the water clinging to the keel 
of an overturned boat. With her usual promptness in an 
emergency, she dragged them all into her boat and took them 
to shore. Another day, from the lighthouse tower, she saw 
the slender figure of a man clinging to a spindle which was 
a mile and a half from the lighthouse. In a very short time 
he would be too exhausted to hold on any longer. She must 
hurry, hurry ! With flying feet she made her boat ready; with 
firm strokes she rowed out to the spindle, rescued the man 
and bore him safely to shore. 

At this time Ida Lewis was so well known as being always 
on hand in any emergency that it was taken as a matter of 
course to have her appear out of the sky, as one's preserver, 
and the man, though extremely grateful, did not seem as 
astonished as he might have otherwise been to be saved 
from such a death by a young girl who apparently dropped 
from the skies just to rescue him. 

In all of these experiences, when she was able to save 
men's lives at the risk of her own, and was successful by 
reason of her quick wit and self-forgetful courage, despite the 
grave chances she took, she never had a single fright about 
her own safety, but simply flew across the bay at any time 
of day or night at the sight of a speck on the water which 
to her trained eye was a human being in danger. 

Winter's hand had laid its glittering mantle of ice on 
Baker's Bay, and on a glorious sunlit morning Ida was 
ready to start to Newport to make some necessary purchases. 

137 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

When she was just about to push her boat off the rocks 
she looked over the bay with the intent, piercing glance for 
which she was famous among fisher-folk, who declared she 
could "see out of the back of her head," and caught a glimpse 
of uniforms, of struggling figures in that part of the bay 
which was so shallow as to be always frozen in mid-winter, 
and which the soldiers all knew to be dangerous to cross. 
But there were two of them, waving their arms in frantic 
appeal for help, as they tried to keep from going under in 
the icy water of the bay. 

There was not a moment to lose. Ida put out from shore, 
rowed swiftly to a point as near the drowning and freezing 
men as was possible, then with her oars broke the ice suffi- 
ciently to make a channel for her boat. As she came near 
to them she found that the insecure ice, melted by the strong 
sun, had given way under them, while they were evidently 
trying to take a short cut to Fort Adams from Newport. 

It was hard work and quick work for Ida's experienced 
hands to get them into the life-boat; and so nearly frozen 
were they that she was obliged to rest on her oars, at the 
same time rubbing their numb limbs as well as she could. 
Then she rowed for shore faster than she had ever rowed 
but once before, and, as she told afterward: 

"I flew for restoratives and hot water, and worked so 
hard and so fast, rubbing them and heating them, that it was 
not long before they came to life again and were sitting up 
in front of the fire, apologizing for their folly, and promising 
that they would never again give me such a piece of work 
to do, or cross the bay in winter at a point where they knew 
it was a risk." She added, naively: "They were as penitent 
as naughty children, so I took advantage of it and gave them 
a lecture on things soldiers ought not to do, among them 
drinking whisky — even with the good excuse of being cold 
— and showing them quite plainly that this scare they had 

138 



IDA LEWIS 

had came from that bad habit. They seemed very sorry, 
and when they got up to go, they saluted me as if I were 
their captain. Then off they went to the fort." 

Several days later she received a letter of thanks from 
the officers at Fort Adams, and a gold watch from the 
men she had rescued "in grateful appreciation of a woman's 
heroism." 

'^n through the long years Ida Lewis, with hair growing 
slowly a little grayer, and with arms a little less equal to 
the burden of rowing a heavy boat through fierce winter 
gales, was faithful to her duties as keeper of the light, now 
never spoken of as the Lime Rock Light, but always as the 
Ida Lewis Light; and, although she was always averse to 
notoriety, yet she was forced to accept the penalty of her 
brave deeds, and welcome the thousands of tourists who 
now swarmed daily over the promontory and insisted on a 
personal talk with the keeper of the light. Had it not been 
for Mrs. Lewis, both aged and feeble, but able to meet and 
show the visitors over the island, Ida would have had no 
privacy at all and no time for her work. 

Although she always disHked praise or publicity, yet she 
accepted official recognition of her faithful work with real 
appreciation, and it was touching to see her joy when one 
day she received a letter bearing the signature of the Secre- 
tary of the Treasury, notifying her that the gold life-saving 
medal had been awarded to her — and stating that she was 
the only woman in America upon whom the honor had been 
conferred! At a later date she also received three silver 
medals: gifts from the State of Rhode Island, and from the 
Humane Society of Massachusetts, and also from the New 
York Life-Saving Association. All these recognitions of her 
achievements Ida Lewis received with shining eyes and won- 
der that such praise should have come to her for the 
simple performance of her duty. "Any one would rescue a 

139 



\^^: 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

drowning man, of course," she said. **I just happen to be 
where I see them first!" 

But although she was so modest, and although so many 
honors were heaped upon her, none ever meant to her what 
the first expression of public appreciation meant, shown by 
the citizens of Rhode Island. 

An invitation had been sent to her, asking her to be pres- 
ent at the Custom-House at Newport on a certain day in 
1869. She accepted the invitation, and went at the ap- 
pointed hour without much thought about the matter. 
When she reached the Custom-House, to her surprise a com- 
mittee of prominent Newport residents met her and escorted 
her to a seat on the platform, from which she looked down 
on a vast audience, all staring with evident curiosity at the 
shght, dark-haired woman in whose honor the throng had 
come together. There were speeches so filled with praise 
of her deeds that Ida Lewis would have liked to fly from the 
sight of the applauding crowd; but instead must sit and 
listen. The speeches at an end, there was a moment's pause; 
then she found herself on her feet, amid a chorus of cheers, 
being presented with a magnificent new life-boat, the Rescue, 
a gift from the citizens of Newport as a slight recognition of 
her acts of bravery. 

Ida never knew all she said in response to the presenta- 
tion speech; she only knew that tears streamed down her 
cheeks as she gripped a man's hand and said, "Thank you, 
thank you — I don't deserve it!" over and over again, while 
the audience stood up and applauded to the echo. As if 
that were not enough to overcome any young woman, as she 
left the building, James Fisk, Jr., approached her and, 
grasping her hand warmly, told her that there was to be a 
new boat-house built back of the light, large enough for her 
beautiful new boat. 

It was late that night before Ida fell asleep, lulled at last 
140 



IDA LEWIS 

by the wind and the lapping of the waves, and thinking with 

intense happiness not of her own achievements, but of the 

pride and joy with which her mother received the account 

of her daughter's ovation and gift, and her words rang in 

Ida's ears above the noise of the waters, "Your father would 

be so proud, dear!" 

^-^^tOT fifty-three years Ida Lewis remained the faithful 

/ keeper of her beloved light, and because of her healthy, out- 

\ of-door life we catch a glimpse of the woman of sixty-five 

which reminds us strongly of the girl who led the way to 

the lighthouse point on that day in 1841, to show her new 

home to her school-mates. In the face of howling winds and 

winter gales she had snatched twenty-three lives from the 

jaws of death, and in her sixty-fifth year she was at her old 

^\j2prk. 

A woman had rowed out to the light from Newport, and 
when her boat had almost reached the pier which had been 
erected recently on the island shore, she rashly stood on 
her feet, lost her balance and fell overboard. Ida Lewis, 
who was rowing in near the pier, instantly came to the 
rescue, helped the struggling and much frightened woman 
into her own boat, and then picked up the other one, which 
was drifting away. 

Sixty-five years young, and heroic from earliest girlhood 
to latest old age! We add our tribute to those heaped on 
her head by many who knew her in person and others who 
were acquainted only with her heroic acts, and we rejoice 
to know that in this year of American crisis we, too, can 
reflect the heroism of the keeper of Lime Rock Light, for in 
our hands are greater opportunities for wide service and 
greater variety of instruments by which to mold the des- 
tiny of nations and save life. Proud are we that we, too, 
are American, as was Ida Lewis, and we can give interest 
as consecrated and sincere to the work at our hand to-day 

141 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

as she gave, whose daily precepts were work and thrift, and 
who said, in her quaint way, of the hght which had been her 
beacon of inspiration for so many years of service: 

"The light is my child and I know when it needs me, even 
if I sleep. This is home to me, and I hope the good Lord 
will take me away when I have to leave it." 

Her wish was granted. In the last week of October, 
191 1, she fell asleep in the lighthouse on Lime Rock, which 
had been her home for so long, lulled into an eternal repose 
by the wind and waves, which had for many years been 
her beloved companions — and as she slept the beacon-light 
which she had for so long kept trimmed and burning sent 
out its rays far beyond the little bay where Ida Lewis lay 
^asleep. 

Patriotism, faithfulness, service — ^who can reckon their 
value? The gleam of Ida Lewis's light flashes inspiration and 
determination to our hearts to-day. 



CLARA BARTON: "THE ANGEL OF THE 
BATTLEFIELDS" 

FOR several weeks the sound of hammer and saw had 
been heard on the Barton farm where a new barn was 
being built. The framework was almost up, and David 
Barton and his little sister Clara, with a group of friends, 
were eagerly watching the carpenters, who were just fixing 
the high rafters to the ridge-pole. 

**I dare you to climb to the top, Dave!" suddenly chal- 
lenged a boy in the group. 

David Barton, who was known as the "Buffalo Bill" of 
the neighborhood, always took a dare. Almost before the 
challenge had been given his coat was off and he had 
started toward the new building amid a chorus of cries: 
"Good for you, Dave!" from the group of young specta- 
tors who were always thrilled by his daring exploits. Only 
the little sister Clara protested, 

"Don't, David," she exclaimed. "It isn't safe." 

Her warning was not heeded. Up went the sure-footed 
athlete until he had almost reached the topmost peak of 
the barn. Crash ! a board gave way under his feet, and down 
to the ground he was hurled, landing on his back on a pile 
of heavy boards. Limp and lifeless he lay there, a strange 
contrast to the vigorous young man who had climbed up 
the building only a few moments earlier, and the accident 
seemed to paralyze the faculties of those who saw it happen. 
It was not the builders or the older persons present who spoke 

143 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

first, but small, dark-eyed, determined Clara, who idolized 
her brother. 

"Get mother, and go for the doctor, quick!" she com- 
manded, and in less time than it takes to tell it the entire 
Barton family had been summoned to the scene of the dis- 
aster, and a doctor was bending over the unconscious man. 

Dorothy and Sally, the grown-up sisters, hastily obeyed 
the doctor's 'orders, and made a room in the farm-house 
ready for their injured brother, while Stephen Barton and 
one of the workmen carried him in as gently as possible and 
laid him on the bed which he was not to leave for many 
weary months. Examination proved that the injury was a 
serious one, and there was need of careful and continuous 
nursing. To the surprise of the whole family, who looked 
on eleven-year-old Clara, the youngest of them all, as still 
a baby, when Mrs. Barton made ready to take charge of the 
sick-room, she found a resolute little figure seated by the 
bedside, with determination to remain there showing on 
every line of her expressive face. 

** Let me take care of him ! I can do it — I want to. Please, 
oh, please!" pleaded Clara. 

At first the coveted permission was denied her, for how 
could a girl so young take care of a dangerously injured man.? 
But as the weary days and nights of watching wore away 
and it seemed as if there would be no end to them, from 
sheer exhaustion the older members of the family yielded 
their places temporarily to Clara. Then one day when the 
doctor came and found her in charge, the sick-room was so 
tidy and quiet, and the young nurse was so clear-minded 
and ready to obey his slightest order, that when she begged 
him to let her take care of her brother he gave his hearty 
permission, and Clara had won her way. 

From that time on, through long months, she was the 
member of the family whose entire thought and care was 

144 



CLARA BARTON 

centered in the invalid. David was very sick for such a long 
time that it seemed as if he could never rally, and his one 
great comfort was having Clara near him. Hour after hour, 
and day after day, she sat by his bedside, his thin hand 
clasped in her strong one, with the patience of a much older, 
wiser nurse. She practically shut herself up in that sick- 
room for two whole years, and it seemed as if there was 
nothing too hard for her to do well and quickly, if in anyway 
it would make David more comfortable. Finally a new 
kind of baths was tried with success. David was cured, and 
Clara Barton had served her earliest apprenticeship as a 
nurse. 

Let us look back and see what went into the making of 
an eleven-year-old child who would give two years of her 
life to a task like that. 

On Christmas Day of the year 1821, Clarissa Harlowe, as 
she was named, or "Clara" Barton, as she was always 
called, was born in her father's home near the town of Ox- 
ford, Worcester County, Massachusetts. Her oldest sister 
Dorothy was seventeen at that time, and her oldest brother 
Stephen, fifteen, while David was thirteen and Sally ten 
years old; so it was a long time since there had been a baby 
in the family, and all were so delighted over the event that 
Clara Barton says in her Recollections, **I am told the family 
jubilation upon the occasion was so great that the entire 
dinner and tea sets had to be changed for the serving of the 
noble guests who gathered." 

The house in which the Christmas child was born was a 
simple farm-house on a hill-top, and inside nearly everything 
was home-made, even the crib in which the baby was 
cradled. Outside, the flat flagstone in front of the door was 
marked by the hand tools of the father. Stephen Barton, 
or Captain Barton as he was called, was a man of marked 
military tastes, who had served under **Mad Anthony" 

14s 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

Wayne in campaigns against the Indians. In his youngest 
daughter Clara he found a real comrade, and, perched on 
his knee, she early gained a passionate love of her country 
and a child's simple knowledge of its history through the 
thrilling tales he told her. In speaking of those days she says : 

"I listened breathlessly to his war stories. Illustrations 
were called for, and we made battles and fought them. 
Every shade of military etiquette was regarded. Colonels, 
captains, and sergeants were given their proper place and 
rank. So with the political world; the President, Cabinet, 
and leading officers of the government were learned by 
heart, and nothing gratified the keen humor of my father 
more than the parrot-like readiness with which I lisped 
these difficult names." That they did not mean much even 
to such a precocious child as Clara Barton is shown by an 
incident of those early days, when her sister Dorothy asked 
her how she supposed a Vice-President looked. 

"I suppose he is about as big as our barn, and green!" 
was the quick reply. 

But though the child did not understand all that was 
poured into her greedy little mind by an eager father, yet 
it bore fruit in later years, for she says: "When later I . . . 
was suddenly thrust into the mysteries of war, and had to 
take my place and part in it, I found myself far less a 
stranger to the conditions than most women, or even ordi- 
nary men, for that matter. I never addressed a colonel 
as captain, got my cavalry on foot, or mounted my infan- 
try!" 

When she was not listening to her father's stories or help- 
ing her mother with the housework, which, good housewife 
that Mrs. Barton was, she took great pains to teach her 
youngest daughter how to do well, Clara was as busy as 
possible in some other way. In that household there were 
no drones, and the little girl was not even allowed to waste 

146 



CLARA BARTON 

time In playing with dolls, although she was given time to 
take care of her pets, of which she had an ever-increasing 
collection, including dogs, cats, geese, hens, turkeys, and 
even two heifers which she learned to milk. 

Dorothy, Sally and Stephen Barton were teachers, and 
as Clara early showed her quick mentality, they all took 
great Interest in educating her according to their different 
ideas. As a result, when the little girl was three years old 
she could read a story to herself, and knew a little bit about 
geography, arithmetic and spelling. That decided the fam- 
ily. Such a bright mind must be developed as early as 
possible. So on a fine, clear winter morning Stephen lifted 
her to his shoulders with a swing of his strong arms, and 
in that way she rode to the school taught by Col. Richard 
C. Stone, a mile and a half from the Barton farm. Although 
the new pupil was such a very httle girl, and so shy that often 
she was not able even to answer when she was spoken to 
or to join the class in reciting Bible verses or in singing 
songs, yet Colonel Stone was deeply Interested In her, and 
his manner of teaching was so unusual that the years with 
him made a lasting Impression on his youngest scholar's 
mind. To Clara It was a real loss when, at the end of five 
years, the Colonel left the school, to be succeeded by Clara's 
sisters In summer and by her brother Stephen In winter. 

David was Clara's favorite brother. So athletic was he, 
and so fond of all forms of out-of-door life and exercise, that 
he was no less than a hero to the little sister, who watched 
him with Intense admiration, and In her secret heart deter- 
mined that some day and In some way she, too, would be 
brave and daring. 

Having decided this In her own mind, when David sug- 
gested teaching her to ride, she was delighted, and, hiding 
her fear, at once took her first lesson on one of the beautiful 
blooded colts which were a feature of her father's farm. 

II 147 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

In her Story of My Childhood she says: "It was David's 
deHght to take me, a little girl five years old, to the field, 
seize a couple of those beautiful grazing creatures, broken 
only to the halter and bit, and, gathering the reins of both 
bridles in one hand, throw me on the back of one colt, 
spring on the other himself, and, catching me by the foot 
and bidding me * cling fast to the mane,' gallop away over 
field and fen, in and out among the other colts, in wild glee 
like ourselves. They were merry rides we took. This was 
my riding-school. I never had any other, but it served me 
well. . . . Sometimes in later years when I found myself 
on a strange horse, in a troop saddle, flying for life or liberty 
in front of pursuit, I blessed the baby lessons of the wild 
gallops among the colts." 

And so it was that the child grew strong in body and 
alert in mind, while the routine of daily farm duties, when 
she was not at school or galloping over the fields with 
David, developed her in concentration and in inventive 
ability. Housekeeping at that time was crude, and most of 
the necessary articles used were made at home. There were 
no matches. The flint snapped by the lock was the only way of 
lighting a fire. Garments were homespun, and home-made 
food was dried, canned and cooked in large quantities by 
the busy housekeeper. Although there was always a fire 
blazing on the hearth of the home, it was thought to be a 
religious duty to have the meeting-house unheated on the 
Sabbath day. Little Clara, who was particularly susceptible 
to cold, bore the bitter chill of the building as bravely as she 
could, each week in the long winter, but one Sunday as she 
sat in the big pew, not daring to swing her feet, they grew 
more and more numb until at last, when she was obliged to 
stand on them, she fell over — her poor little feet were 
frozen, and she had to be carried home and thawed out! 

When she was eight years old her father left his hill farm 
14.8 



CLARA BARTON 

and moved down to the Learned house, a much bigger farm 
of three hundred acres, with the brook -Hke French river 
winding through its broad meadows, and three great barns 
standing in the lowlands between the hill and the house. 
Stephen and David remained on the hill to work their small 
farms there, and the other sisters stayed there, but Clara 
was not lonesome in the new home in the valley, for at that 
time she had as playmates the four children of Captain 
Barton's nephew, who had recently died. With them Clara 
played hide-and-seek in the big hay-mows, and other inter- 
esting games. Her most marked characteristic then and for 
many years afterward was her excessive shyness, yet when 
there was anything to do which did not include conversation 
she was always the champion. At times she was so bashful 
that even speaking to an intimate friend was often an agony 
to her, and it is said she once stayed home from meeting on 
Sunday rather than tell her mother that her gloves were too 
worn out to wear! 

Inside the new house she found many fascinating things 
to do, and did them with eager interest. The house was being 
redecorated, and Clara went from room to room, watching 
the workmen, and even learned to grind and mix paints. 
Then she turned her attention to the paperers, who were so 
much amused with the child's cleverness that they showed 
her how to match, trim and hang paper, and in every room 
they good-naturedly let her paste up some piece of the deco- 
ration, so she felt that the house was truly hers, and never 
lost her affection for it in any of her later wanderings or 
changes of residence. 

When the new home was completed inside Clara turned 
her attention to out-of-door matters and found more than 
one opportunity for daring feats. With shining eyes and 
bated breath, she learned to cross the little winding French 
river on teetering logs at its most dangerous depths. When 

149 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

this grew tame, she would go to the sawmill and ride out on 
the saw carriage twenty feet above the stream, and be pulled 
back on the returning log, and oh the joy of such dangerous 



sport 



By the time she was eleven years old her brothers had been 
so successful with their hill farms that they followed their 
father down to the valley of the river, where they bought 
the sawmill and built new dams and a grain-mill, and Sally 
and Stephen, who both married, settled in homes near the 
Barton farm. Then came the building of the new barn and 
David's accident. Eleven-year-old Clara, a child in years 
but mature mentally, proved equal to the emergency and 
took up her role of nurse in the same vigorous way she went 
about everything — but she had to pay a high price for her 
devotion. 

David was strong and well again, but the little sister who 
had been his constant companion through the weary months 
was far from normal. The family had been so occupied with 
the invalid that no thought had been given to his young 
nurse. Now with grave concern Captain Barton talked with 
his wife. 

"She has not gained an ounce in weight in these two 
years," he said, "and she isn't an inch taller. If anything, 
she seems to be more morbidly self-conscious and shy than 
ever. What shall we do with her.?" 

That was the question. The years shut up in the sick- 
room had completely unfitted Clara for ordinary life; she 
seemed to be more afraid of speaking to any one, more afraid 
of being seen or talked to than ever before. All took a hand 
at helping her to forget herself. Sally, who knew what an 
imaginative nature her small sister had, interested her in 
reading poetry, which was a delight to Clara. At the same 
time her father and brothers kept her out-of-doors as much 
as possible, and her father gave her a fine horse of her own. 

150 



CLARA BARTON 

She named him Billy, and at once jumped on his back to 
get acquainted. From that time the slim, graceful animal 
with his youthful rider became one of the features of the 
neighborhood as they galloped across country. But, despite 
all that was done to make her healthy and happy, her self- 
consciousness and shyness remained, and another way of 
curing her was tried. She was sent to the boarding-school 
which was kept by her old teacher, Colonel Stone. He was 
deUghted to have her in the school, and her quick mind was 
an amazement to him; but she was so homesick that often 
it was impossible for her to study or to recite, while being 
with one hundred and fifty girls of her own age made her 
more bashful than ever. In despair. Colonel Stone advised 
her father to take her home before she became seriously 
sick, and soon she found herself again in her beloved haunts. 
After that time her brother Stephen taught her mathe- 
matics; and later, when two fine teachers came to Oxford, 
she studied Latin, philosophy and chemistry with them, 
besides literature, history and languages — finding herself far 
ahead of the other scholars of her age, although she had 
been buried in a sick-room for two years. 

As long as she was busy she was contented, but when vaca- 
tion came she was again miserable. Her active mind and 
body demanded constant work; when she did not have it 
she was simply wretched, and made those around her so. 

One day, when she was in her brother's mill watching 
the busy weavers, she had a sudden desire to work a loom 
herself. When she mentioned this at home her mother was 
horrified, but Stephen, who understood her restless nature 
better, took Clara's side and a few days later she proudly 
took her place before her loom and with enthusiastic per- 
sistence mastered the mysteries of the flying shuttle. How 
long she would have kept on with the work cannot be guessed, 
for on the fifteenth day after she began work the mill burned 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

down, and she was again on the look-out for new employ- 
ment for her active brain and body. 

That she was a real girl was shown when, having discov- 
ered that she had no summer hat, she decided she must 
have one. Walking through the rye-fields, she had an idea. 
With quick interest in a new accomplishment, she cut a 
number of green rye stalks, carried them into the house and 
scalded them, then laid them out in the sun to bleach, and 
when they were white, she cut them into even lengths, 
pulled them apart with her teeth, braided them in eleven 
strands and made the first straw bonnet she ever owned. 

Somehow or other the months of vacation wore away; 
then the question was, what to do next? Her nature de- 
manded constant action. She was far ahead of others of 
her own age in the matter of studies, and Mrs. Barton was 
in real bewilderment as to what to do with her youngest 
child. A phrenologist, who was a keen observer of child 
nature, was visiting the Bartons at that time, and Clara, 
who had the mumps and was lying on the lounge in the 
adjoining room, heard her mother tell their guest of her 
daughter's restlessness and self-consciousness and ask his 
advice. Listening eagerly, she heard his reply: 

"The sensitive nature will always remain," he said. "She 
will never assert herself for herself; she will suffer wrong 
first. But for others she will be perfectly fearless. Throw 
responsibility upon her. Give her a school to teach.'* 

The very words, "give her a school to teach," sent a shiver 
of fear through Clara's frame, as she lay there listening, 
but at the same time she felt a thrill of pleasure at the idea 
of doing something so important as teaching. If her mother 
was so much troubled about her peculiar traits as to be 
obliged to talk them over with a stranger, they must be 
very hard to bear. She would set to work to be something 
quite different, and she would begin at once! 

152 



CLARA BARTON 

And so it happened that when Clara Barton was fifteen 
years old she followed in the footsteps of her brother and 
sisters and became a teacher. As soon as she decided to 
take the step, she was given District School No. 9, up in 
"Texas village," and in May, 1836, "after passing the teach- 
ers' examination with a mark of 'excellent,' she put down 
her skirts and put up her hair and walked to the little school- 
house, to face and address her forty scholars." That was 
one of the most awful moments of her life. When the rows 
of pupils were ranged before her, and she was supposed to 
open the exercises by reading from the Bible, she could not 
find her voice, and her hand trembled so visibly that she 
was afraid to turn the pages and so disclose her panic. 
But no one knew. With perfect outward calmness, she 
kept her eyes on the open book until her pulse beat less fast, 
then she looked straight ahead and in a steady voice asked 
them to each read a verse in turn. This was a new and 
delightful plan to her pupils, who were still more pleased 
when the reading was over to have the new teacher question 
them in a friendly way about the meaning of the verses 
they had just read in the "Sermon on the Mount." 

That first day proved her marked ability as a teacher, and 
so kindly and intimate was she with her scholars that they 
became more her comrades than her pupils. When the four 
rough boys of the school "tried her out" to see how much 
she could endure, to their astonishment, instead of being 
able to lock her out of the building as they had done with 
the previous teacher, she showed such pluck and physical 
strength that their respect was won and kept. After that, 
almost daily, at recess time she would join them in games 
such as no teacher had ever played with them before. And 
with her success Clara gained a new assurance and a less 
shy manner, although she never entirely lost her self-con- 
sciousness. 

153 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

So successful was she with that first school that it was 
the preface to sixteen years of continuous teaching, winter 
and summer. Her two most interesting experiences as 
a teacher were in North Oxford and in Bordentown, 
New Jersey. North Oxford was the mill village where 
her brother's factories were, and where there were hun- 
dreds of children. When her popularity as the teacher 
in No. 9, Texas village, spread to North Oxford, she was 
asked to go there to start a school for operatives. This 
was a piece of work to her liking, and for ten years she 
says: "I stood with them in the crowded school -room 
summer and winter, without change or relaxation. I saw 
my little lisping boys become overseers, and my stalwart 
overseers become business men and themselves owners of 
mills. My little girls grew to be teachers and mothers 
of families." Here was satisfying work for the busy brain 
and active body! But even that did not take up all of 
her time; she found long hours in which to read and 
study, and also acted as Stephen's bookkeeper in the mill, 
during those years in North Oxford. 

At the end of the ten years she broke away from the 
routine of teaching and became a pupil herself in CHnton 
Liberal Institute in New York, as there were no colleges for 
women at that time. The year of study refreshed her in 
mind and body, and, as her mother died during the year 
and her father decided to live with his married children, 
Clara was free to seek the work of the world wherever it 
should claim her. 

From the seminary she went to Hightstown to teach, 
and while there rumors of her ability to cope with conditions 
and unruly scholars reached the village of Bordentown, ten 
miles away from Hightstown. Many attempts had been 
made to start a public school there, but without success. 
As a result the children of the poor ran wild in the streets, 

154 



CLARA BARTON 

or when an attempt was made to open a school they broke 
up the sessions by their lawless behavior. When she heard 
this, Clara Barton was so greatly interested that she went 
to Bordentown to talk it over with the town officials, who 
told her that it was useless to think of making the experi- 
ment again. 

Clara Barton's eyes flashed with determination. "Give 
me three months, and I will teach free!" she said. 

As a result of her generous offer, she was allowed to rent 
a tumble-down, unoccupied building, and opened her school 
with six pupils! Every one of the six became so enthusiastic 
over a teacher who was interested in each individual that 
their friends were eager to be her pupils, too, and parents 
were anxious to see what the wonderful little bright-eyed, 
friendly woman could do for their children. At the end of 
five weeks the building was too small for her scholars, and 
the roll-call had almost six hundred names on it. To a 
triumphant teacher who had volunteered her services to try 
an experiment, a regular salary was now offered and an 
assistant given her. And so Clara Barton again proved her 
talent for teaching. 

But Bordentown was her last school. When she had been 
there for two years and perfected the public-school system, 
her voice gave out as a result of constant use, and she went 
to Washington for a rest. But it did not take her long to 
recuperate, and soon she was eagerly looking out for some 
new avenue of opportunity to take the place of teaching. 
Government work interested her, and she heard rumors of 
scandals in the Patent Office, where some dishonest clerks 
had been copying and selling the ideas of inventors who had 
filed patents. This roused her anger, for she felt the inven- 
tors were defrauded and undefended individuals who needed 
a protector. As her brother's bookkeeper, she had devel- 
oped a clear, copper-plate handwriting, which would aid her 

155 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

in trying to get the position she determined to try for. 
Through a relative in Congress she secured a position in the 
Patent Office, and when it was proved that she was accept- 
table there, although she was the first woman ever ap- 
pointed independently to a clerkship in the department, she 
was given charge of a confidential desk, where she had the 
care of such papers as had not been carefully enough 
guarded before. Her salary of ^1,400 a year was as much as 
was received by the men in the department, which created 
much jealousy, and she had many sneers and snubs and 
much disagreeable treatment from the other clerks; but she 
went serenely on her way, doing her duty and enjoying the 
new line of work with its chances for observation of the 
government and its working. 

War clouds were now beginning to gather over both 
North and South, and signs of an approaching conflict were 
ominously clear in Washington, where slavery sentiments 
swayed all departments. Clara Barton saw with keen men- 
tal vision all the signs of the times, and there was much to 
worry her, for from the first she was clearly and uncompro- 
misingly on the unpopular side of the disturbing question, 
and believed with Charles Sumner that ** Freedom is na- 
tional; slavery is sectional." She beheved in the Union 
and she believed in the freedom of the individual. So eager 
was she to help the government in the coming national 
crisis that she offered her services as a clerk, to do the work 
of two dishonest men; for this work she was to receive the 
salary of one clerk, and pay back into the Treasury that of 
the other, in order to save all the money possible for an 
emergency. No deed gives a clearer insight into the char- 
acter of Clara Barton than that. As it was in the case of 
the school in Bordentown, so was it now. If public service 
was the question, she had no thought of self or of money — 
the point was to achieve the desired end. And now she was 

156 



CLARA BARTON 

nearer the goal of her own personal service to the world 
than she dreamed. 

Fort Sumter was fired on. President Lincoln called for 
seventy-five thousand troops, and all those who were at 
the seat of government knew that the hour for sacrifice 
of men and money had come. Massachusetts responded 
to the call for troops with four regiments, one of which, 
the Sixth, set out for Washington at once. As they 
marched through the streets of Baltimore they were at- 
tacked by a furious mob who succeeded in killing four 
soldiers and wounding many more, but the troopers 
fought them off as bravely as possible and marched on 
to the station, where they entrained for Washington, 
many of them arriving there in a pitiable condition. 
When they detrained at the national capital they were 
met by a large number of sympathetic women, among 
them Clara Barton, who recognized some of her old friends 
and pupils among those who were limping, or with injured 
arms, or carried on stretchers, and her heart went out to 
them in loyalty and pride, for they were giving their services 
to their country in an hour of need. 

The men who had not been injured were temporarily 
quartered at the Capitol, while the wounded were taken to 
the Infirmary, where their wounds were dressed at once, 
any material on hand being used. When the supply of hand- 
kerchiefs gave out, Clara Barton, as well as other impromptu 
nurses, rushed to their homes and tore up sheets for band- 
ages, and Miss Barton also filled a large box full of needles, 
pins, buttons, salves and other necessities, and carried it 
back to the Infirmary, where she had her first experience 
in caring for wounded soldiers. When she could leave the 
Infirmary, she went to the Capitol and found the poor fel- 
lows there famished, for they had not been expected and 
their commissary stores had not yet been unloaded. Down 

IS7 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

to the market hurried the energetic volunteer nurse, and 
soon came back carrying a big basketful of supplies, which 
made a feast for the hungry men. Then, as she afterward 
wrote in a letter to a friend, "the boys, who had just one 
copy of the Worcester Spy of the 22nd, were so anxious to 
know its contents that they begged me to read it to them, 
which I did — mounting to the desk of the President of the 
Senate, that they all might hear." 

In her letter she says, "You would have smiled to see me 
and my audience in the Senate Chamber of the U. S. A." 
and adds: "God bless the noble fellows who leave their 
quiet happy homes at the call of their country. So far as 
our poor efforts can reach, they shall never lack a kindly 
hand or a sister's sympathy if they come." 

Eager to have the soldiers given all the comforts and 
necessities which could be obtained, Miss Barton put an 
advertisement in the Worcester Spy, asking for supplies 
and money for the wounded and needy in the Sixth Regi- 
ment, and stating that she herself would receive and give 
them out. The response was overwhelming. So much food 
and clothing was sent to her that her small apartment over- 
flowed with supplies, and she was obliged to rent rooms in a 
warehouse to store them. 

And now Clara Barton was a new creature. She felt within 
herself the ability to meet a great need, and the energy 
which for so long had been pent up within her was poured 
out in a seemingly unending supply of tenderness and of help 
for suffering humanity. There was no time now for sensi- 
tiveness, or for shyness; there was work to do through the 
all-too-short days and nights of this struggle for freedom 
and unity of the nation. Gone was the teacher, gone the 
woman of normal thought and action, and in her place we 
find the "Angel of the Battlefields," who for the remainder of 
her life was to be one of the world's foremost figures in min- 

158 



CLARA BARTON 

istrations to the suffering, where suffering would otherwise 
have had no alleviation. 

"On the 2 1 St of July the Union forces were routed at Bull 
Run with terrific loss of life and many wounded. Two 
months later the battle of Ball's Bluff occurred, in which 
there were three Massachusetts regiments engaged, with 
many of Clara Barton's Hfelong friends among them. By 
this time the hospitals and commissaries in Washington had 
been well organized, and there was no desperate need for 
the supplies which were still being shipped to Miss Barton 
in great quantities, nor was there need of her nursing. How- 
ever, she went to the docks to meet the wounded and dying 
soldiers, who were brought up the Potomac on transports." 
Often they were in such a condition from neglect that they 
were baked as hard as the backs of turtles with blood and 
clay, and it took all a woman's swift and tender care, to- 
gether with the use of warm water, restoratives, dressings, 
and dehcacies to make them at all comfortable. Then 
their volunteer nurse would go with them to the hospitals, 
and back again in the ambulance she would drive, to repeat 
her works of mercy. 

But she was not satisfied with this work. If wounds could 
be attended to as soon as the men fell in battle, hundreds 
of deaths could be prevented, and she made up her mind 
that in some way she was going to override public sentiment, 
which in those early days of the war did not allow women 
nurses to go to the front, for she was determined to go to 
the very firing-line itself as a nurse. And, as she had got her 
way at other times in her life, so now she achieved her end, but 
after months of rebuffs and of tedious waiting, during which 
the bloody battle of Fair Oaks had been fought with terrible 
losses on each side. The seven days' retreat of the Union 
forces under McClellan followed, with eight thousand 
wounded and over seventeen hundred killed. On top of this 

159 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

came the battle of Cedar Mountain, with many Northerners 
killed, wounded and missing. 

One day, when Assistant Quartermaster-General Rucker, 
who was one of the great-hearts of the army, was at his desk, 
he was confronted by a bright-eyed little woman, to whose 
appeal he gave sympathetic attention. 

"I have no fear of the battle-field," she told him. "I 
have large stores, but no way to reach the troops.'* 

Then she described the condition of the soldiers when they 
reached Washington, often too late for any care to save them 
or heal their wounds. She must go to the battle-front where 
she could care for them quickly. So overjoyed was she 
to be given the needed passports as well as kindly interets 
and good wishes that she burst into tears as she gripped the 
old soldier's hand, then she hurried out to make immediate 
plans for having her supplies loaded on a railroad car. As 
she tersely put it, "When our armies fought on Cedar Moun- 
tain, I broke the shackles and went to the field." When 
she began her work on the day after the battle she found an 
immense amount of work to do. Later she described her 
experience in this modest way: 

"Five days and nights with three hours' sleep — a narrow 
escape from capture — and some days of getting the wounded 
into hospitals at Washington brought Saturday, August 
30th. And if you chance to feel that the positions I occupied 
were rough and unseemly for a woman, I can only reply 
that they were rough and unseemly for men. But under 
all, lay the life of a nation. I had inherited the rich blessing 
of health and strength of constitution such as are seldom 
given to women, and I felt that some return was due from 
me and that I ought to be there." 

The famous army nurse had served her novitiate now, 
and through the weary years of the war which dragged on 
with alternate gains and losses for the Union forces, Clara 

160 



CLARA BARTON 

Barton's name began to be spoken of with awe and deep 
affection wherever a wounded man had come under her 
gentle care. Being under no society or leader, she was free 
to come or go at will. But from the first day of her work 
at the front she was encouraged in it by individual officers 
who saw the great value of what she accomplished. 

At Antietam, when the fighting began, her wagons were 
driven through a field of tall corn to an old homestead, while 
the shot whizzed thick around them. In the barnyard and 
among the corn lay torn and bleeding men — the worst cases, 
just brought from the places where they had fallen. All 
was in confusion, for the army medical supplies had not yet 
arrived, and the surgeons were trying to make bandages of 
corn husks. The new army nurse immediately had her 
supplies unloaded and hurried out to revive the wounded 
with bread soaked in wine. When her bread gave out there 
were still many to be fed. All the suppHes she had were 
three cases of unopened wine. 

"Open the wine, and give that," she commanded, "and 
God help us." 

Her order was obeyed, and as she watched the cases being 
unpacked her eyes fell on the packing around the bottles of 
wine. It was nicely sifted corn-meal. If it had been gold 
dust it could not have been more valuable. The wine was 
unpacked as quickly as possible; kettles were found in the 
farm-house, and in a twinkling that corn-meal was mixed 
with water, and good gruel for the men was in the making. 
Then it occurred to Miss Barton to see what was in the 
cellar of the old house, and there three barrels of flour and 
a bag of salt were found, stored by the rebels and left be- 
hind when they marched away. "What wealth!" exclaimed 
the woman, who was frantically eager to feed her flock. 
All that night Clara Barton and her workers carried 
buckets of hot gruel up and down the long lines to the 

i6i 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

wounded and dying men. Then up to the farm-house went 
the army nurse, where, in the dim Hght of a lone flickering 
candle, she could dimly see the surgeon in charge, sitting 
in apparent despair by the table, his head resting in his 
hands. She tiptoed up to him and said, quietly, "You are 
tired, doctor." 

Looking up, he exclaimed: "Tired.? Yes, I am tired! 
Tired of such heartlessness and carelessness! And," he 
added, "think of the condition of things. Here are at least 
one thousand wounded men; terribly wounded, five hun- 
dred of whom cannot live till daylight without attention. 
That two-inch of candle is all I have, or can get. What can 
I do.? How can I bear it.?" 

A smile played over Clara Barton's clear-cut face. Gently 
but firmly she took him by the elbow and led him to the 
door, pointing toward the barn, where dozens of lanterns 
gleamed like stars. 

"What is it?" he exclaimed. 

"The barn is lighted," she said, "and the house will be 
directly." 

"Who did It?" 

"I, doctor." 

"Where did you get them?" 

"Brought them with me." 

"How many have you?" 

"All you want, four boxes." 

For a moment he stared at her as If to be sure he was not 
in a dream. Then he turned away without a word, and 
never spoke of the matter again, but his deference to Clara 
Barton from that time was the greatest a man can pay a 
woman. 

Not until all her stores were exhausted and she was sick 
with a fever would Clara Barton leave the battle-field of 
Antietam; then, dragging herself to the train, she went back 

162 



CLARA BARTON 

to Washington to be taken care of until she was better. 
When at last she was strong enough to work again she went 
to see her friend Quartermaster-General Rucker, and told 
him that if she had had five wagons she would have had 
enough supplies for all the wounded at Antietam. With 
an expression of intense admiration on his soldierly face 
as he watched the brave volunteer nurse, he declared: 

"You shall have enough next time!" 

The promise was made good. Having recognized the value 
of her efficient services, the Government assisted in every- 
way, making it possible for her to carry on her work on 
the battle-fields and in military camps and hospitals in the 
best way. 

Clara Barton! — Only the men who lay wounded or dying 
on the battle-field knew the thrill and the comfort that the 
name carried. Again and again her life was in danger — 
once at Antietam, when stooping to give a drink of water 
to an injured boy, a bullet whizzed between them. It ended 
the life of the poor lad, but only tore a hole in Clara Barton's 
sleeve. And so, again and again, it seemed as if a special 
Providence protected her from death or injury. At Fred- 
ericksburg, when the dead, starving and wounded lay frozen 
on the ground, and there was no effective organization for 
proper relief, with swift, silent efficiency Clara Barton moved 
among them, having the snow cleared away and under the 
banks finding famished, frozen figures which were once men. 
She rushed to have an old chimney torn down and built 
fire-blocks, over which she soon had kettles full of coffee and 
gruel steaming. 

As she was bending over a wounded rebel, he whispered 
to her: "Lady, you have been kind to me . . . every street 
of the city is covered by our cannon. When your entire 
army has reached the other side of the Rappahannock, 
they will find Fredericksburg only a slaughter-pen. Not a 
12 163 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

regiment will escape. Do not go over, for you will go to 
certain death." 

She thanked him for the kindly warning and later told of 
the call that came to her to go across the river, and what 
happened. She says: 

"At ten o'clock of the battle day when the rebel fire was 
hottest, the shells rolling down every street, and the bridge 
under the heavy cannonade, a courier dashed over, and, 
rushing up the steps of the house where I was, placed in my 
hand a crumpled, bloody piece of paper, a request from the 
lion-hearted old surgeon on the opposite shore, estabhshing 
his hospitals in the very jaws of death: 

"'Come to me,' he wrote. 'Your place is here.' 

"The faces of the rough men working at my side, which 
eight weeks before had flushed with indignation at the 
thought of being controlled by a woman, grew ashy white 
as they guessed the nature of the summons, . . . and they 
begged me to send them, but save myself. I could only 
allow them to go with me if they chose, and in twenty min- 
utes we were rocking across the swaying bridge, the water 
hissing with shot on either side. 

"Over into that city of death, its roofs riddled by shell, 
its every church a crowded hospital, every street a battle- 
line, every hill a rampart, every rock a fortress, and every 
stone wall a blazing line of forts. 

"Oh, what a day's work was that! How those long lines 
of blue, rank on rank, charged over the open acres, up to 
the very mouths of those blazing guns, and how like grain 
before the sickle they fell and melted away. 

"An officer stepped to my side to assist me over the 
debris at the end of the bridge. While our hands were raised 
in the act of stepping down, a piece of an exploding shell 
hissed through between us, just below our arms, carrying 
away a portion of both the skirts of his coat and my dress, 

164 



CLARA BARTON 

rolling along the ground a few rods from us like a harmless 
pebble in the water. The next instant a solid shot thundered 
over our heads, a noble steed bounded in the air and with 
his gallant rider rolled in the dirt not thirty feet in the rear. 
Leaving the kind-hearted officer, I passed on alone to the 
hospital. In less than a half-hour he was brought to me — 
dead." 

She was passing along a street in the heart of the city 
when she had to step aside to let a regiment of infantry 
march by. At that moment General Patrick saw her, and, 
thinking she was a frightened resident of the city who had 
been left behind in the general exodus, leaned from his 
saddle and said, reassuringly: 

"You are alone and in great danger, madam. Do you 
want protection?" 

With a rare smile, Miss Barton said, as she looked at the 
ranks of soldiers, ''Thank you, but I think I am the best- 
protected woman in the United States." 

The near-by soldiers caught her words and cried out: 

"That's so! That's so!" and the cheer they gave was 
echoed by line after line, until the sound of the shouting 
was like the cheers after a great victory. Bending low with 
a courtly smile, the general said: 

**I believe you are right, madam!" and galloped away. 

"At the battles of Cedar Mountain, Second Bull Run, 
Antietam, during the eight months' siege of Charleston, in 
the hospital at Fort Wagner, with the army in front of 
Petersburg and in the Wilderness and the hospitals about 
Richmond, there was no limit to the work Clara Barton 
accompHshed for the sick and dying, but among all her ex- 
periences during those years of the war, the Battle of Fred- 
ericksburg was most unspeakably awful to her. And yet 
afterward she saw clearly that it was this defeat that gave 
birth to the Emancipation Proclamation. 

i6s 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

"And the white May blossoms of '63 fell over the glad 
faces — the swarthy brows, the toil-worn hands of four 
million liberated slaves. ^America,' writes Miss Barton, 
'had freed a race.'" 

As the war drew to an end, President Lincoln received 
hundreds of letters from anxious parents asking for news of 
their boys. There were eighty thousand missing men whose 
families had no knowledge whether they were alive or dead. 
In despair, and believing that Clara Barton had more infor- 
mation of the soldiers than any one else to whom he could 
turn, the President requested her to take up the task, and the 
army nurse's tender heart was touched by the thought of 
helping so many mothers who had no news of their boys, and 
she went to work, aided by the hospital and burial lists she 
had compiled when on the field of action. 

For four years she did this work, and it was a touching 
scene when she was called before the Committee on Investi- 
gation to tell of its results. With quiet simplicity she stood 
before the row of men and reported, "Over thirty thousand 
men, living and dead, already traced. No available funds 
for the necessar}^ investigation; in consequence, over eight 
thousand dollars of my own income spent in the search." 

As the men confronting her heard the words of the bright- 
eyed woman who was looked on as a sister by the soldiers 
from Maine to Virginia, whose name was a household one 
throughout the land, not one of them was ashamed to wipe 
the tears from his eyes! Later the government paid her 
back in part the money she had spent in her work; but 
she gave her time without charge as well as many a dollar 
which was never returned, counting it enough reward to 
read the joyful letters from happy, reunited families. 

While doing this work she gave over three hundred lect- 
ures through the East and West, and as a speaker she held 
her audiences as if by magic, for she spoke glowingly about 

166 



CLARA BARTON 

the work nearest to her heart, giving the proceeds of her 
lectures to the continuance of that work. One evening in 
the winter of 1868, when speaking in one of the finest opera- 
houses in the East, beR re one of the most brilHant assem- 
blages she had ever faced, her voice suddenly gave out, as 
it had in the days when she was teaching. The heroic army 
nurse and worker for the soldiers was worn out in body and 
nerves. As soon as she was able to travel the doctor com- 
manded that she take three years of absolute rest. Obey- 
ing the order, she sailed for Europe, and in peaceful Switzer- 
land with its natural beauty hoped to regain normal strength; 
for her own country had emerged from the black shadow of 
war, and she felt that her life work had been accomplished, 
that rest could henceforth be her portion. 

But Clara Barton was still on the threshold of her complete 
achievement. When she had been in Switzerland only a 
month, and her broken-down nerves were just beginning to 
respond to the change of air and scene, she received a call 
which changed the color of her future. Her caller repre- 
sented the International Committee of the Red Cross 
Society. Miss Barton did not know what the Red Cross was, 
and said so. He then explained the nature of the society, 
which was founded for the relief of sick and wounded sol- 
diers, and he told his eager listener what she did not know, 
that back of the Society was the Geneva Treaty, which had 
been providing for such relief work, signed by all the civilized 
nations except her own. From that moment a new ambi- 
tion was born in Clara Barton's heart — to find out why 
America had not signed the treaty, and to know more about 
the Red Cross Society. 

"Nearly a year later, while still resting in quiet Switzer- 
land, there broke one day upon the clear air of her Swiss 
home the distant sounds of a royal party hastening back 
from a tour of the Alps. To Miss Barton's amazement it 

167 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

came in the direction of her villa. Finally flashed the scarlet 
and gold of the Hveries of the Grand Duke of Baden. After 
the outriders came the splendid coach of the Grand Duchess, 
daughter of King Wilhelm of Prussia, so soon to be Em- 
peror WilHam of Germany. In it rode the Grand Duchess. 
After presenting her card through the footman, she her- 
self alighted and clasped Miss Barton's hand, hailing her 
in the name of humanity, and said she already knew her 
through what she had done in the Civil War. Then, still 
clasping her hand in a tight grip of comradeship, she begged 
Miss Barton to leave Switzerland and aid in Red Cross work 
on the battle-fields of the Franco-Prussian War, which was 
in its beginnings. It was a real temptation to once again 
work for suffering humanity, yet she put it aside as unwise. 
But a year later, when the officers of the International Red 
Cross Society came again to beg that Miss Barton take the 
lead in a great systematic plan of reHef work such as that for 
which she had become famous during the Civil War, she 
accepted. In the face of such consequences as her health 
might suffer from her decision, she rose, and, with head 
held high and flashing eyes, said: 

"Command me!" 

Clara Barton was no longer to be the Angel of the Amer- 
ican battle-fields only — from that moment she belonged to 
the world, and never again could she be claimed by any one 
country. But it is as the guardian angel of our soldiers in 
the United States that her story concerns us, although there 
is reason for great pride in the part she played in nursing 
the wounded at Strassburg, and later when her presence 
carried comfort and healing to the victims of the fight with 
the Commune in Paris. 

As tangible results of her work abroad, she was given 
an amethyst cut in the shape of a pansy, by the Grand 
Duchess of Baden, also the Serbian decoration of the Red 

i68 



CLARA BARTON 

Cross as the gift of Queen Natalie, and the Gold Cross of 
Remembrance, which was presented her by the Grand Duke 
and Duchess of Baden together. Queen Victoria, with her 
own hand, pinned an English decoration on her dress. The 
Iron Cross of Germany, as well as the Order of Melusine 
given her by the Prince of Jerusalem, were among an array 
of medals and pendants — enough to have made her a much- 
bejeweled person, had it been her way to make a show of her 
own rewards. 

Truly Clara Barton belonged to the world, and a suffering 
person had no race or creed to her — she loved and cared for 
all. 

When at last she returned to America, it was with the de- 
termination to have America sign the Geneva Treaty and 
to bring her own country into line with the Red Cross 
movement, which she had carefully watched in foreign coun- 
tries, and which she saw was the solution to efficient aid of 
wounded men, either in the battle-field or wherever there 
had been any kind of disaster and there was need of quick 
aid for suffering. It was no easy task to convince American 
officials, but at last she achieved her end. On the ist of 
March, 1882, the Geneva Treaty was signed by President 
Arthur, ratified by the Senate, and immediately the Amer- 
ican National Red Cross was formed with Clara Barton as 
its first president. 

The European "rest" trip had resulted in one of the 
greatest achievements for the benefit of mankind in which 
America ever participated, and its birth in the United States 
was due solely to the efl^orts of the determined, consecrated 
nurse who, when eleven years old, gave her all to a sick 
brother, and later consecrated her life to the service of a 
sick brotherhood of brave men. 

On the day after her death, on April 12, 191 2, one 
editor of an American newspaper paid a tribute to her 

169 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

that ranks with those paid the world's greatest heroes. 
He said: 

"On the battle-fields of the Rebellion her hands bound up 
the wounds of the injured brave. 

"The candles of her charity lighted the gloom of death 
for the heroes of Antietam and Fredericksburg. 

"Across the ocean waters of her sweet labors followed the 
flag of the saintly Red Cross through the Franco-Prussian war. 

"When stricken Armenia cried out for help in 1896, it was 
Clara Barton who led the relief corps of salvation and 
sustenance. 

"A woman leading in answering the responsibility of civili- 
zation to the world! 

"When McKinley's khaki boys struck the iron from 
Cuba's bondage it was Clara Barton, in her seventy-seventh 
year, who followed to the fever-ridden tropics to lead in the 
relief-work on Spanish battle-grounds. 

"She is known wherever man appreciates humanity." 

Hers was the honor of being the first president of the 
American Red Cross, but she was more than that — she 
was the Red Cross at that time. It was, as she said, "her 
child," and she furnished headquarters for it in her Wash- 
ington home, dispensing the charities of a nation, amounting 
to hundreds of thousands of dollars, and was never requested 
to publish her accounts, an example of personal leadership 
which is unparalleled. 

In 1897 we find the Red Cross president settled in her home 
at Glen Echo, a few miles out of Washington, on a high 
slope overlooking the Potomac, and, although it was a Red 
Cross center, it was a friendly lodging as well, where its 
owner could receive her personal friends. Flags and Red 
Cross testimonials from rulers of all nations fluttered from 
the walls, among them a beautiful one from the Sultan of 

170 



CLARA BARTON 

Turkey. Two small crosses of red glass gleamed in the front 
windows over the balcony, but above the house the Red 
Cross banner floated high, as if to tell the world that "the 
banner over us is love." And to Glen Echo, the center of 
her beloved activity, Clara Barton always loved to return 
at the end of her campaigns. To the many thousands who 
came .to visit her home as one of the great humane centers 
of the world, she became known as the "Beautiful Lady of 
the Potomac," and never did a title more fittingly describe 
a nature. 

To the last she was a soldier — systematic, industrious, 
severely simple in her tastes. It was a rule of the household 
that every day's duties should be disposed of before turning 
in for the night, and at five o'clock the next morning she 
would be rolling a carpet-sweeper over the floor. She always 
observed military order and took a soldier's pride in keeping 
her quarters straight. 

Hanging on the wall between her bedroom and private 
sitting-room was a small mirror into which her mother 
looked when she came home as a bride. 

Her bed was small and hard. Near it were the books 
that meant so much to her — the Bible, Pilgrim's Progress, 
the stories of Sarah Orne Jewett, the poems of Lucy Lar- 
com, and many other well-worn, much-read classics. 

That she was still feminine, as in the days of girlhood 
when she fashioned her first straw bonnet, so now she was 
fond of wearing handsome gowns, often with trains. Laven- 
der, royal purple, and wine color were the shades she liked 
best to wear, and in which her friends most often remember 
her. Despite her few extravagant tastes, Clara Barton was 
the most democratic woman America ever produced, as 
well as the most humane. She loved people, sick and well, 
and in any State and city of the Union she could claim per- 
sonal friends in every walk of life. 

171 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

When, after ninety-nine years of life and fifty of continuous 
service to suffering human nature, death laid its hand upon 
her on that spring day, the world to its remotest corner 
stopped its busy barter and trade for a brief moment to 
pay reverent tribute to a woman, who was by nature of 
the most retiring, bashful disposition, and yet carried on 
her life-work in the face of the enemy, to the sound of can- 
non, and close to the firing-line. She was on the firing-line 
all her life. That is her hfe story. 

Her "boys" of all ages adored her, and no more touching 
incident is told of her than that of a day in Boston, when, after 
a meeting, she lingered at its close to chat with General 
Shafter. Suddenly the great audience, composed entirely of 
old soldiers, rose to their feet as she came down the aisle, 
and a voice cried : 

''Three cheers for Clara Barton!" 

They were given by voices hoarse with feeling. Then 
some one shouted: 

''Tiger!" 

Before it could be given another voice cried: 

"No! Sweetheartr 

Then those grizzled elderly men whose lives she had helped 
to save broke into uproar and tears together, while the 
little bent woman smiled back at them with a love as true 
as any sweetheart's. 

To-day we stand at the parting of the ways. Our nation 
is in the making as a world power, and in its rebirth there 
must needs be bloodshed and scalding tears. As we Amer- 
ican girls and women go out bravely to face the untried 
future and to nurse under the banner of the Red Cross, we 
shall do our best work when we bear to the battle-field the 
same spirit of high purpose and consecration that inspired 
Clara Barton and made her the "Angel of the Battle-fields." 

172 



CLARA BARTON 

Let us, as loyal Americans, take to heart part of a speech 
she once made on Memorial Day, when she stood with the 
"Boys in Blue" in the "God's-acre" of the soldier, and 
declared: 

"We cannot always hold our great ship of state out of the 
storms and breakers. She must meet and buffet with them. 
Her timbers must creak in the gale. The waves must wash 
over her decks, she must lie in the trough of the sea as she 
does to-day. But the Stars and Stripes are above her. She 
is freighted with the hopes of the world. God holds the 
helm, and she's coming to port. The weak must fear, the 
timid tremble, but the brave and stout of heart will work 
and hope and trust." 



VIRGINIA REED: MIDNIGHT HEROINE OF THE 
PLAINS IN PIONEER DAYS OF AMERICA 

ON a lovely April morning in 1846 there was an unusual 
stir in the streets of Springfield, Illinois, for such an 
early hour. From almost every house some one was hurry- 
ing, and as neighbor nodded to neighbor the news passed on: 

"The wagons are ready — they are going!" 

As the sun mounted slowly in the cloudless sky, from all 
parts of town there still flocked friends and relatives of the 
small band of emigrants who were about to start on their 
long trip across the plains, going to golden California. 

California — magic word! Not one of those who were 
hurrying to wish the travelers God-speed, nor any of the 
band who were leaving their homes, but felt the thrilling 
promise and the presage of that new country toward which 
the emigrants were about to turn their faces. 

The crowd of friends gathered at the Reeds' home, where 
their great prairie-wagons and those of the Donners were 
drawn up in a long line before the door; the provision 
wagons, filled to overflowing with necessities and luxuries, 
the family wagons waiting for their human freight. Mr. 
James F. Reed, who had planned the trip, was one of Spring- 
field's most highly respected citizens, and the Donner 
brothers, who Hved just outside of the town, had enthusi- 
astically joined him in perfecting the details of the journey, 
and had come in to town the night before, with their families, 
to be ready for an early start. And now they were really 
going! 

174 



VIRGINIA REED 

All through the previous winter, in the evening, when the 
Reeds were gathered before their big log fire, they had talked 
of the wonderful adventure, while Mrs. Reed's skilful fingers 
fashioned such garments as would be needed for the journey. 
And while she sewed, Grandma Keyes told the children mar- 
velous tales of Indian massacres on those very plains across 
which they were going to travel when warmer days came. 
Grandma told her breathless audience of giant red men, 
whose tomahawks were always ready to descend on the 
heads of unlucky travelers who crossed their path — told so 
many blood-curdling stories of meetings between white 
men and Indian warriors that the little boys, James and 
Thomas, and little black -eyed Patty and older Virginia, 
were spellbound as they listened. 

To Virginia, an imaginative girl, twelve years old, the very 
flames, tongueing their way up the chimney in fantastic 
shapes, became bold warriors in mortal combat with emi- 
grants on their way to the golden West, and even after she 
had gone to bed it seemed to her that "everything in the 
room, from the high old-fashioned bedposts down to the 
shovel and tongs, was transformed into the dusky tribe in 
paint and feathers, all ready for a vrar-dance" as they 
loomed large out of shadowy corners. She would hide her 
head under the clothes, scarcely daring to wink or breathe, 
then come boldly to the surface, face her shadowy foes, and 
fall asleep without having come to harm at the hands of the 
invisibles. 

Going to California — oh the ecstatic terror of it! And 
now the day and the hour of departure had come! 

The Reeds' wagons had all been made to order, and care- 
fully planned by Mr. Reed himself with a view to comfort in 
every detail, so they were the best of their kind that ever 
crossed the plains, and especially was their family wagon a 
real pioneer car de luxe, made to give every possible con- 

175 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

venience to Mrs. Reed and Grandma Keyes. When the 
trip had been first discussed by the Reeds, the old lady, then 
seventy-five years old and for the most part confined to her 
bed, showed such enthusiasm that her son declared, laugh- 
ingly: "I declare, mother, one would think you were going 
with us.'* 

"I am!'* was the quick rejoinder. **You do not think I am 
going to be left behind when my dear daughter and her 
children are going to take such a journey as that, do you? 
I thought you had more sense, James!" 

And Grandma did go, despite her years and her infirmities. 

The Reeds' family wagon was drawn by four yoke of fine 
oxen, and their provision wagons by three. They had also 
cows, and a number of driving and saddle horses, among 
them Virginia's pony Billy, on whose back she had been held 
and taught to ride when she was only seven years old. 

The provision wagons were filled to overflowing with all 
sorts of supplies. There were farming implements, to be 
used in tilling the land in that new country to which they 
were going, and a bountiful supply of seeds. Besides these 
farm supplies, there were bolts of cotton prints and flannel 
for dresses and shirts, also gay handkerchiefs, beads, and 
other trinkets to be used for barter with the Indians. More 
important still, carefully stowed away was a store of fine 
laces, rich silks and velvets, muslins and brocades, to be 
exchanged for Mexican land-grants. The family wagon, 
too, had been fitted up with every kind of commodity, in- 
cluding a cooking-stove, with its smoke-stack carried out 
through the canvas roof of the wagon, and a looking-glass 
which Mrs. Reed's friends had hung on the canvas wall 
opposite the wagon door — "so you will not forget to keep 
your good looks, they said!" 

And now the party was ready to start. Among its number 
were Mrs. Reed and her husband, with little Patty, the two 

176 



VIRGINIA REED 

small boys, James and Thomas, and the older daughter, Vir- 
ginia; the Donners, George and Jacob, with their wives and 
children; Milton Elliott, driver of the Reed family wagon, 
who had worked for years in Mr. Reed's big sawmill; 
Eliza Baylis, the Reeds' domestic, with her brother and a 
number of other young men, some of them drivers, others 
merely going for adventure. In all, on that lovely April 
morning, it was a group of thirty-one persons around whom 
friends and relatives clustered for last words and glimpses, 
and it was a sad moment for all. Mrs. Reed broke down 
when she realized that the moment of parting had really 
come, while Mr. Reed, in response to the good wishes show- 
ered on him, silently gripped hand after hand, then he hur- 
ried into the house with Milt Elliott, and presently came out 
carrying Grandma, at the sight of whom her friends cheered 
lustily. She waved her thin hand in response as she was 
lifted gently into the wagon and placed on a large feather- 
bed, where she was propped up with pillows and declared 
herself to be perfectly comfortable. 

And indeed her resting-place was very much like a room, 
for the wagon had been built with its entrance at the side, 
like an old-fashioned stage-coach, and from the door one 
stepped into a small square room. At the right and left were 
spring seats with high backs, which were comfortable for 
riding, and over the wheels for the length of the wagon, a 
wide board had been placed, making what Virginia called a 
"really truly second story" on which beds were made up. 
Under this "second story" were roomy compartments in 
which were stowed away stout bags holding the clothing of 
the party, each bag plainly marked with a name. There 
was also a full supply of medicines, with lint and bandages 
for an emergency, and Mr. Reed had provided a good library 
of standard books, not only to read during the journey, 
but knowing they could not be bought in the new West. 

177 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

Altogether, from provision wagon to family caravan, there 
was a complete equipment for every need, and yet when they 
arrived in California, as one of the party said, "We were 
almost destitute of everything!" 

The wagons were loaded, Grandma was safely stowed away 
in her warm bed, with little Patty sitting on its end where 
she could hold back the door flap that the old lady might 
have a last glimpse of her old home — the hard farewells had 
been said, and now Mr. Reed called in as cheery a voice as he 
could command, "All aboard!" 

Milton Elliott cracked his whip, and the long line of 
prairie-wagons, horses and cattle started. Then came a 
happy surprise. Into saddles and vehicles sprang more 
than a score of friends and relatives who were going to follow 
the party to their first night's encampment, while many of 
Virginia's schoolmates ran at the side of the wagon through 
the principal streets of the town until one by one they 
dropped back from fatigue, Virginia waving a continued 
farewell from the wagon while they were in sight. 

The first day's trip was not a long one, as it was thought 
wise to make the start easy for man and beast. Most of 
the -fay Virginia rode on Biliy, sometimes beside the wagon, 
then again galloping ahead with her father. A bridge was 
seen in the distance, and Patty and the boys cried out to 
Milton, "Please stop, and let us get out and walk over it; the 
oxen may not take us across safely!" Milt threw back his 
head and roared with laughter at such an idea, but he halted 
to humor them, then with a skilful use of his loud-voiced 
"Gee! and Haw!" made the huge beasts obey his will. 

On the line of great wagons wound its way beyond the 
town, until the sun was sinking in the west, when they 
stopped for the night on the ground where the Illinois State 
House now stands. The oxen were then unhitched and the 
wagons drawn up in a hollow circle or "corral," within the 

178 



VIRGINIA REED 

protection of which cattle and horses were set free for the 
night, while outside the corral a huge camp-fire soon blazed, 
around which the party gathered for their first evening meal 
together, and their last one with those friends who had come 
thus far on their way with them. It was a determinedly 
merry group around the fire, and stories were told and songs 
sung, which to the radiant Virginia were a foretaste of such 
coming adventure as was beyond her wildest dreams. 

As she sat in the glow of the camp-fire, with sleepy Patty's 
head pillowed on her lap, she felt even more than before the 
thrill of this wonderful adventuring. To keep a record of 
her travels, — that was the thing to do! Full of the idea, 
she pinned together sheets of wrapping-paper into a bulky 
blank-book, on the outside of which she printed: 

Going to California. i8^/.6. 

From that time she kept a faithful though not a continuous 
record of the experiences of what came to be known later as 
"the ill-fated Donner party of martyr pioneers." And 
from that record she later wrote her story of their journeying 
to the golden West. 

By the eleventh day of May the band of emigrants had 
reached the town of Independence, Missouri, and Virginia's 
record says: 

"Men and beasts are in fine condition. There is nothing 
in all the world so fascinating as to travel by day in the warm 
sunshine and to camp by night under the stars. Here we 
are just outside the most bustling town I ever saw and it is 
good news to find a large number of inhabitants with their 
wagons, ready to cross the prairie with us. Who knows, 
perhaps some new friendships will be made as we all go on 
together! They all seem to feel as eager to go as we are, and 
everybody is glad. I will get acquainted with as many as I 

13 179 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

can now, and bring cheerful ones to visit Grandma, for she 
feels rather homesick, except when Patty and I make her 
laugh," 

Again, "The first few days of travel through the Territory 
of Kansas were lovely. The flowers were so bright and 
there were so many birds singing. Each day father and I 
would ride ahead to find a place to camp that night. Some- 
times when we galloped back we would find the wagons 
halting at a creek, while washing was done or the young 
people took a swim. Mother and I always did our wash at 
night, and spread it on the bushes to dry. All this is such a 
peaceful recital that I began to think I need not keep a diary 
at all, till one hot day when I was in the wagon helping Patty 
cut out some doll's dresses, Jim came running up to the 
wagon, terribly excited and crying out: 

"'Indians, Virginia! Come and see! They have to take 
us across the river!' Out he rushed and I after him, with 
every story Grandma ever told us dancing through my 
brain. Now there was going to be an adventure! But 
there wasn't. We had reached the Caw River, where there 
were Indians to ferry us across. They were real and red 
and terrifying, but I never flinched. If they brought out 
tomahawks in midstream, I would be as brave as a pioneer's 
daughter should be. But would you believe me, those 
Indians were as tame as pet canaries, and just shot us across 
the river without glancing at us, and held out their big hands 
with a grunt, for the coins! That was one of the greatest 
disappointments of my life." 

All went well with the travelers during those first weeks of 
the trip, and no one enjoyed it more than Grandma Keyes 
after she got over being homesick. But when they reached 
the Big Blue river, it was so swollen that they had to lie by 
and wait for it to go down, or make rafts to cross it on. As 
soon as they stopped traveling Grandma began to faib 

1 80 



VIRGINIA REED 

and on the 29th of May, with scarcely any pain, she died. 
Virginia's diary says: "It was hard to comfort mother until 
I persuaded her that to die out in that lovely country, and 
with most of your family around you, was far better than 
living longer at home. Besides, she might have died in 
Springfield. So mother cheered up a little, while all the 
party helped us in making the sad preparations. A coffin 
was made from a cotton-wood tree, and a young man from 
home found a gray stone slab and cut Grandma's name, 
birthplace, and age on it. A minister of the party made a 
simple address, and with the sunhght filtering through the 
trees we buried her under an oak-tree and covered the grave 
with wild flowers. Then we had to go on our way and leave 
dear Grandma in the vast wilderness, which was so hard for 
mother that for many days I did not take my rides on Billy, 
but just stayed with her. But the landscape was so comfort- 
ingly beautiful that at last she cheered up and began to feel 
that Grandma was not left alone in the forest, but was with 
God. Strange to say, that grave in the woods has never 
been disturbed; around it grew up the city of Manhattan, 
Kansas, and there it is in the city cemetery of to-day." 

The river did not go down, as the men had hoped, so they 
began to cut down trees and split them into twenty-five-foot 
logs which were hollowed out and joined together by cross 
timbers, these were firmly lashed to stakes driven into the 
bank, and ropes were tied to each end to pull the rafts back 
and forth across the river. It was no easy matter to get the 
heavy wagons down the steep bank to the rafts, and they 
had to be held back by the ropes and let down slowly so the 
wheels would run into the hollowed logs. The women and 
children stayed in the wagons, and talked and laughed gaily^ 
that they might not show the fear they felt as they balanced 
above the swollen river. But it was crossed safely and then 
on the oxen jogged over a rough road until the great Valley 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

of the Platte was reached, where the road was good and the 
country beautiful beyond expression. Virginia says: *'Our 
party was now so large that there was a line of forty wagons 
winding its way like a serpent through the valley. There 
was no danger of any kind, and each day was happier than 
the one before. How I enjoyed galloping over the plains on 
Billy!" she exclaims, adding, "At night we young folks 
would sit around the camp-fire, chatting merrily, and often a 
song would be heard, or some clever dancer would give us a 
barn-door jig on the hind gate of a wagon!" 

The caravan wound its slow way westward, making from 
fifteen to twenty miles a day, and always at night, when the 
party camped, a corral was formed to protect the cattle from 
thieving Indians, who, says Virginia, sadly, "are not Hke 
grandma's Indians. They treat us kindly except for taking 
our things, which is annoying but not terrifying." And she 
adds, "We have fine fare for those who like to eat game, as 
we have so many good riflemen in the party who are always 
bringing it in." She then confesses, "I certainly never 
thought I would be rehshing antelope and buffalo steaks, 
but they are good food when one has grown used to them. 
Often I ride with father in a buffalo hunt, which is very 
thrilHng. We all help Eliza, who has turned into a fine camp 
cook. As soon as we reach the place where we are to spend 
the night all hands get to work, and, my, but things taste 
good when that meal is ready! When we drove into the 
South Fork of the Platte, Eliza had the cream ready to churn, 
and while we were fording the stream she worked so hard that 
she turned out several pounds of butter." 

The diary gives quite a long narrative here as follows: 

"By the Fourth of July we were near Fort Laramie in 

Dakota, and what a sight I saw as we approached the fort. 

'Grandma's Indians!' I exclaimed, as I saw bands of horses 

grazing on the plains and Indians smeared with war-paint 

182 



VIRGINIA REED 

and armed with hunting-knives, tomahawks, bows and 
arrows, moving about in the sunhght. They did not seem to 
notice us as we drove up to the strongly fortified walls 
around the buildings of the American Fur Company, but by 
the time we were ready to leave, the red men and their 
squaws were pressing close to the wagons to take trinkets 
which we had ready for them. Little Patty stood by me 
and every now and then she squeezed my arm and cried, 
'Look! Look!' as the Indians crowded around us. Many of 
the squaws and papooses were gorgeous in white doeskin 
suits gaily trimmed with beads, and were very different from 
us in our linsey dresses and sunbonnets. 

"As soon as father met the manager of the Fur Company? 
he advised us to go right on as soon as we could, because he 
said the Sioux were on the war-path, going to fight the Crows 
or Blackfeet, and their march would be through the country 
which we had to cross, and they might treat us badly, or rob 
us, as they were in an ugly humor. This greatly frightened 
some of the women, and to calm them the men cleaned and 
loaded their rifles and did everything they could to hurry 
away from the fort. We were there only four days, and 
when we drove away we met the mounted Indians, about 
three hundred of them, tomahawks, war-paint, and all! 
They looked very handsome and impressive as they advanced 
in a stately procession, two abreast, and rode on before our 
train, then halted and opened ranks. As our wagons passed 
between their lines they took green twigs from between their 
teeth and tossed them to us in token of friendship. Then, 
having shown their good faith, they crowded around our 
wagons and showed great curiosity at the funny little smoke- 
stack sticking through the top of our family wagon. A brave 
caught a ghmpse of his war-paint and feathers in our looking- 
glass, which hung opposite the door, and he was fascinated. 
Beckoning to his comrades, he pointed to it, and to the 

i»3 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

strange reflection of himself, and they all fairly pushed to 
the front, to see themselves, in the glass. Unfortunately at 
that time I rode up on Billy, and at once the Indians forgot 
everything except their admiration of my pony. They 
swarmed around me, grunting, nodding, and gesturing, and 
brought buffalo robes and tanned buckskin, also pretty 
beaded moccasins and robes made of grass, and signed to me 
that they would give all these in exchange for Billy. I 
shook my head as hard as I could shake it, but they were 
determined to have Billy. They made signs that they 
would give their ponies for mine, but again I shook my head. 
They talked together awhile, then one of them triumphantly 
brought me an old coat which had evidently belonged to a 
soldier, and seemed much surprised that its brass buttons 
were not enough of an inducement to make me give up the 
coveted prize. Though both father and I continued to 
refuse their request as positively as ever, they still swarmed 
around us and looked at me in a most embarrassing way. I 
did not mind much, but father seemed angry and he said, 
sternly: 'Virginia, you dismount at once and let one of the 
men take Billy. Get into the wagon now.' When father 
spoke in that way I was never slow to obey, so I climbed 
into the wagon, and, being anxious to get a better look at the 
Indians, I took a field-glass out of the rack where it hung and 
put it to my eyes. The glass clicked as I took it from the 
rack and like a flash the Indians wheeled their ponies and 
scattered, taking the noise for the click of firearms. I turned 
to mother and laughed. 

***You see you need not be afraid, mother dear,' I said; 
*I can fight the whole Sioux tribe with a spy-glass! If they 
come near the wagon again just watch me take it up and see 
them run!'" 

Those were happy days of adventuring in a new and 
smiling country, and all were in high spirits when on the 19th 

184 



VIRGINIA REED 

of July they reached the Little Sandy River, where 
they encamped, and all gathered together to talk over 
whether to take a new route which had been opened up by 
Mr. Lansford Hastings, called the Hastings Cut-ofF. This 
route passed along the southern shore of the Great Salt 
Lake, then joined the Old Fort Hall emigrant road on the 
Humboldt River. The new route was said to shorten the 
trip by about three hundred miles, and Virginia says in her 
diary, "Father was so eager to reach California quickly, that 
he was strongly in favor of taking the Cut-ojfF, while others 
were equally firm in their objections to taking such a risk. 
At that time our party had grown to be a large one, for so 
many families had joined us on our way across the plains, 
and all had to have their say about the matter. 

"There was a long discussion of the merits of the two 
routes, and as a result, at last we decided to split up, for a 
number of the party preferred not to risk taking the new 
route, while eighty-seven of us, including our family and the 
Donners, decided to take the Cut-ofF. 

"On the 20th of July we broke camp and left the little 
Sandy, the other division of the party taking the old trail 
to Fort Hall, and the rest of us, who were called 'the Donner 
party' from that time, taking the new one. 

"When we reached Fort Bridger, we were told that Mr. 
Hastings, whom we had expected to find there, had gone 
ahead to pilot a large emigrant train, and had left word that 
all later bands were to follow his trail; that they would find 
an abundant supply of wood, water, and pasturage along the 
whole line of road except for one forty-mile drive; that there 
were no difficult canons to pass; and that the road was mostly 
good. This was encouraging and we traveled on comfort- 
ably for a week, when wc reached the spot where Webber 
River breaks through the mountains into a canon. There, 
by the side of the road, was a forked branch with a note 

185 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

stuck in its cleft, left by Hastings, saying, *I advise all par- 
ties to encamp and wait for my return. The road I have 
taken is so rough that I fear wagons will not be able to get 
through to the Great Salt Lake Valley.' He mentioned 
another and better route which avoided the cafion alto- 
gether, and at once father, Mr. Stanton and William Pike 
said they would go ahead over this road, and if possible meet 
Hastings and bring him back to pilot us through to the 
valley. 

" While the men went off to try to find Hastings, we en- 
camped and waited for them to come back. In five days 
father came alone, having become separated from his com- 
panions, who he feared might have been lost. They had 
met Hastings, but he had refused to leave his party for their 
sake. Finally, however, father had insisted that he go with 
them to a high peak of the Wahsatch Mountains and from 
there point out to them the direction our party ought to take. 
Coming down from the peak, father lost sight of Stanton 
and Pike and was forced to come on alone, taking notes and 
blazing trees to help him in retracing his path when he should 
have us to guide. Searchers were at once sent out after the 
lost men, while we broke camp and started on our risky 
journey. It was easy enough traveling at first, but the fol- 
lowing day we were brought to a sudden stop by a patch of 
dense woodland which it took a whole day's chopping to 
open up enough for our wagons to pass through. From 
there we chopped and pushed our way through what seemed 
an impassable wilderness of high peaks and rock-bound 
canons, and then faced a great rough gulch. Believing it 
would lead out to the valley, our men again set to work 
vigorously, and for six long days they chopped until they 
were almost exhausted. Then a new party of emigrants 
caught up with us and, aided by three fresh men, the eight- 
mile road through the gulch was finished It did not lead 

i86 



VIRGINIA REED 

to the opening we had expected, but into a pretty mountain 
dell, but we were happy, because we found the searchers 
there with Mr. Stanton and Mr. Pike. They reported that 
we must go back on the newly made road and cross a more 
distant range of mountains in order to strike the trail to the 
valley. That was a moment of terror, even to the most 
courageous of our valiant band, but everyone forced a smile 
and a cheerful word as we started to retrace our way. We 
had five days more of traveling and road-making, and 
climbed a mountain so steep that six yoke of oxen had to pull 
each wagon up the steep ascent. Then we crossed the river 
flowing from Utah Lake to Great Salt Lake and at last 
found the trail of the Hastings party, thirty days after we 
set out for the point we had expected to reach in ten or 
twelve days. 

" While we rested we took an inventory of our provisions, 
and found the supply was not sufficient to last until we 
should reach California. Here was a predicament! Mr. 
Donner called for volunteers to ride ahead on horseback to 
Sutter's Fort, to tell of our sorry plight and ask Captain Sut- 
ter to send back provisions by them for us, as we traveled 
toward them. Mr. Stanton and Mr. McCutchen said they 
would go to the fort, and rode away on their errand of mercy. 

"Our wagons, meanwhile, wound their slow way along, far 
behind the horsemen, who were soon out of our sight, and 
two days later we found a lovely green valley where there 
were twenty wells of clear, sparkling water to cool our 
parched throats, which were only used to the alkaline pools 
from which we had been obliged to drink. Close beside the 
largest well we found a rough board, stuck in the ground 
with strips of white paper pinned to it, and around the board 
pieces of the paper were strewn on the turf, as if they had 
been torn off the board. 'There has been some message 
written on that paper. We must piece the bits together/ 

187 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

declared Mrs. Donner. No sooner said than done. Laying 
the board on her lap, she began to patch the scraps together, 
while we eagerly watched her. At last the words could be 
read: '2 days — 2 nights — hard driving — cross — desert — 
reach water.' This was evidently meant as a warning to us, 
and the thought of two days' hard driving through the desert 
was anything but cheering. In fact, it would be such a strain 
on our cattle that we remained where we were, with the fine 
water to drink and good pasturage for three days. Then we 
filled our water casks, made all other preparations for the 
forty-mile drive, and started off' again. We traveled for 
two days and nights, suff'ering from heat and thirst by day 
and from bitter cold by night. At the end of the second day 
we still saw the vast desert ahead of us as far as we could 
look. There was no more fodder for our cattle, our water- 
casks were empty, and the burning rays of the sun scorched 
us with pitiless and overpowering heat. Father rode on 
ahead in search of water, and scarcely had he left us than 
our beasts began to drop from exhaustion and thirst. Their 
drivers instantly unhitched them and drove them ahead, 
hoping to meet father and find wells where the thirsty 
beasts could be refreshed. They did find father and he 
showed them the way to wells he had found where the beasts 
could drink, then he traveled back to us, reaching our camp 
at dawn. We waited all that day in the desert, with the sun 
beating down on us with cruel heat, and still drivers and 
cattle had not come back. It was a desperate plight, for 
another night without water would mean death. We must 
set out on foot and try to reach some of the other wagons, 
whose owners had gone ahead." Virginia adds, "Never 
shall I forget that night, when we walked mile after mile in 
the darkness, every step seeming to be the very last we could 
take, each of us who were older and stronger, taking turns 
in carrying the younger children. Suddenly out of the 

i8§ 



VIRGINIA REED 

black night came a swift, rushing noise of one of the young 
steers, who was crazed by thirst and rushing madly toward 
us. Father snatched up little Patty, and commanded the 
rest of us to keep close to his side, while he drew his pistol. 
We could hear the heavy snorting of the maddened beast, 
when he turned and dashed off into the darkness, leaving 
us weak and shivering with fright and relief. And still we 
were obliged to drag our weary feet on, for ten long miles, 
when we reached the Jacob Donner wagons. The family 
were all asleep inside, so we lay down on the ground under 
the protecting shadow of the family wagon. A bitter wind 
was howling across the desert, and it so chilled us that we 
crept close together, and if all five of our dogs had not 
snuggled up close to us, warming us with the heat from their 
big bodies, we would probably had died from cold. 

"At dawn father rushed off to find his cattle, but in vain. 
He met the drivers, who told him that as the frenzied beasts 
were being driven toward the wells, they had broken loose 
and been lost in the darkness. At once all the men of the 
company turned out to help father to search for them, but 
none were ever found except one ox and a cow, and in that 
plight we were left stranded on the desert, eight hundred 
miles from Cahfornia! To turn back to Fort Bridger was an 
impossibility — to go forward meant such hardship as 
blanched even my sun-reddened cheeks, and I shuddered at 
the thought that mother must live through greater priva- 
tions than those we had already encountered. Well it was 
that the future was hidden from our eyes on that day in the 
desert! 

" Two oxen were loaned father, which, yoked together with 
our one cow and ox, would draw one wagon, but not the 
family one, which had grown to be so home-like to us in our 
journeyings. It was decided to dig a trench, and cache all 
of our things except those which we could take in the one 

189 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

wagon. A cache is made by digging a hole in the ground and 
sinking in it the bed of a wagon, in which articles are packed; 
the hole is then covered with boards and earth, so they are 
completely hidden, and when we buried ours we hoped some 
day to return and take them away." 

Having cached so many of their treasures, on the party went 
as bravely as possible until they reached Gravelly Ford on 
the Humboldt, where on the 5th of October there was such 
a tragic occurrence that Virginia says, "I grew up into a 
woman in a night, and life was never the same again, al- 
though for the sake of mother and the children I hid my 
feelings as well as I could. 

Here her record is detailed, and as concise as possible. 
She writes: 

"I will tell it as clearly and quickly as I can. We had 
reached a short sandy hill, and as the oxen were all tired, it was 
the custom at such places for the drivers to double up teams 
and help one another up the hill. A driver named Snyder, 
for some unaccountable reason, decided to go up alone. His 
oxen could not pull their load, and Snyder, angry at them, 
began to beat them. Father, who had gone on ahead, looking 
for the best road, came back, and in trying to make Snyder 
stop abusing his beasts, roused his anger to the point of 
frenzy. Father said, *We can settle this, John, when we 
get up the hill.* *No,' said Snyder. *We will settle it 
now!' and, jumping on the tongue of his wagon, he struck 
father a hard blow over the head with his heavy whip-stock. 
One blow followed another, and father was stunned, as well 
as bhnded by the blood streaming down from the gashes in 
his head. The whip was about to drop again when mother 
sprang between the two men. Father saw the uplifted 
whip and had only time to cry *John! John!' when down 
came the blow on mother's head. Quick as a flash father's 
hunting-knife was out and Snyder fell, mortally wounded, 

190 



VIRGINIA REED 

and fifteen minutes later died. Then father realized, too 
late, what he had done. Dashing the blood from his eyes, 
he knelt over the dying man, who had been his friend, with 
remorse and agony in his expression. 

" Camp was pitched at once, our wagon being some dis- 
tance from the others, and father, whose head was badly 
cut, came to me. 

"'Daughter,' he asked, 'do you think you can dress these 
wounds in my head.? Your mother is not able and they 
must be attended to.' I said, promptly: 'Yes, if you will 
tell me what to do.' Then we went into the wagon, where 
we would not be disturbed, and I washed and dressed his 
wounds as best I could. When I had done what he told me 
to do, I burst out crying, and father clasped me in his arms, 
saying: *I should not have asked so much of you!' I told 
him it was pity for him that made me cry. Then he talked 
to me quietly until I had controlled my feelings and was able 
to go back to the tent where mother was lying, weak and 
dazed by the happenings of the day. And there were worse 
things to come. In our party there was a man who had 
been in the habit of beating his wife until father told him he 
must either stop it or measures would be taken to make him. 
He did not dare abuse her again, but he hated father from 
that time, and now he had his chance for revenge. After 
Snyder had been buried, and father had sadly watched the 
last clod of earth piled on the grave, the men of the party 
held a conference from which our family were excluded. 
We waited a short distance away, in terrified suspense to 
know the outcome of it, as we were sure it concerned father. 
And it did. His plea of self-defense was not acceptable to 
them, they said, and we shivered as we saw such bitterness 
on the men's faces as seemed sure would lead to lynching. 
Father saw it, but he was no coward. Baring his neck, he 
stepped forward, and proudly said, 'Come on, gentlemen!' 

191 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

No one moved, and presently he was told that he must 
leave the party, an exile — must go out in the wilderness alone 
without food or weapons. It was a cruel sentence, for it 
might result either in starvation or in murder by the Indians, 
and it is no wonder that mother was beside herself with 
fright, that we children knew not what to do or where to turn 
for help. Father heard the sentence in silence, then facing 
the group of old-time friends, with brave eyes, he said: 
*I will not go. My act was one of self-defense, and as such 
is justified before God and man.' 

" Meanwhile, my mother had been thinking, as she told me 
later, and she begged father to accept the sentence and leave 
the party, thinking it would be less dangerous than to re- 
main among men who had become his enemies. He firmly 
refused until she pleaded that the whole party were now 
practically destitute of food, and if he remained, as an out- 
cast, he would be obliged to see his children starve, while by 
going he might be able to meet them with food which he 
had procured somewhere. After a fearful struggle with his 
own desires, father consented, but not until the men of the 
party had promised to care for his innocent wife and chil- 
dren. Then, after he had held mother in his arms for a long 
agonized moment, he turned to me, and I forced my eyes to 
meet his with such fearless trust that he looked less despair- 
ing as he picked up Patty for a last hug and gripped the boys 
with an emotion too deep for any words; then he went off, an 
exile in the desert. 

" I had no idea what I was going to do about it, but I knew 
I must do something. Through the long hours of the day, 
while I was busy soothing and comforting mother, who felt 
it keenly that we were left as much alone as if we were lepers, 
I was thinking busily. Our wagon was drawn up apart 
from the others, and we ate our scanty evening meal in 
silence. Milt Elliott and some others tried to talk with us, 

192 



VIRGINIA REED 

and show their friendliness, but mother would only answer 
in monosyllables and commanded the children to do the 
same. We were an utterly desolate, frightened group as 
darkness fell over us. I was busy helping the children get 
to bed, and then I found mother in such a state of collapse 
that I could think of nothing but comforting and quieting 
her. 

"At last she fell asleep, and I crept to my bed, but I could 
not sleep. I must act. At last, I made a decision. I was 
strong and fearless, and father had no food or light or sup- 
plies, out there alone in the trackless wilderness. I stole 
to my mother's side and she roused at my Hght touch. 

"'Mother, dear,* I whispered, 'I am going out to find 
father and take him some food, and his gun, and ammuni- 
tion.' She roused and exclaimed: 

"'What do you mean, child? You cannot find your 
father!' 

"'I'm not going alone,' I replied 'I've asked Milt and he 
says he'll go with me.' 

Without giving her a chance to say I must not go, I hur- 
ried to the supply-chest and found some crackers, a small 
piece of bacon, some coffee and sugar. I took a tin cup, too, 
and a dipper for father to make coffee in, and packed his 
gun, pistols, and ammunition with them. His lantern was 
on the shelf, and I put a fresh piece of candle in it and 
matches in my pocket — then I was ready to start. 

" Everything had to be done very quickly and quietly, for 
there would be a great risk if the children knew what I was 
going to do, or if any others of the party discovered my in- 
tention. So I did everything on tip-toe, and holding my 
breath for fear of being discovered. 

*' Mother called, 'Virginia! ' and I went to her side. 'How 
will you find him in the darkness?' 

'"I shall look for his horse's tracks and follow them,' I 
193 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

whispered. At that moment Milton's cautious step was 
heard at the side of the wagon, and with a last hug mother 
released me, and Milt and I stole off on our dangerous 
expedition. 

" Out into the darkness we crept. Stealthily we hid in the 
shadows cast by the wagons in the flickering Hght of the 
dying camp-fire — cautiously we stole up behind the unsus- 
picious sentinel who was wearily tramping back and forth, 
and we held our breath for fright as he suddenly looked over 
the sleeping camp, then peered out into the mysterious 
darkness of the desert, but he did not see us. For safety we 
lay down on the ground, and silently dragged our bodies 
along until we were well out of his sight and hearing; then 
we pushed our feet along without lifting them, to be sure 
they did not fall into some unseen hole or trap, and now and 
again we were startled by some noise that to our excited 
senses seemed to mean that a wild animal was near us. 
My eyes had been searching the darkness around and before 
us, and at last I whispered: 

" ' Stop, Milt. Let us light the lantern ! ' 

" *Then stooping down, I spread out my skirts so that not 
the slightest flash of a match or gleam of light could be seen 
by the sentinel or by any one in the encampment. Milton 
lighted the lantern. I took it in one hand, and with the 
other held my skirts up in such a way as to shield its beams, 
and in its feeble light I searched the ground still frantically 
for some trace of the footprints of father's horse. Although 
I was nervous and excited enough to fly on the wings of 
lightning, I did not let the feeling get the better of me, but 
made a deliberate search of every inch of ground, making a 
complete circle around the outskirts of the camp, for I was 
determined to find those tracks. At last! There they 
were, unmistakable and clear. I gave a smothered cry and 
showed them to Milt. Then, still with the lantern care- 

194 




VIRGINIA GOES FORTH TO FIND HER EXILED FATHER 



VIRGINIA REED 

fully covered, so that no unguarded flash might bring a 
death -dealing shot from the sentinel's rifle, I followed 
where they led. Milt close behind, carrying the gun and 
provisions. Mile after mile we followed — followed, now 
seeing the tracks, now losing them. Oh what an agony 
was compressed in those awful hours! 

" Suddenly on the midnight air came the wild howl of coy- 
otes. From the distance echoed an even more hideous cry — 
that of the panther, seeking for prey. At that sound 
Milton's hair literally stood on end, and if I had shown one 
sign of weakening he would gladly have given up the search. 
But I went on, closing my ears to the dreaded sounds. All 
of a sudden my heart beat so wildly that I was obliged to 
press my hand over it to quiet its hammering. What I 
heard or saw or felt I can never explain, but I know that all 
the terror of my thirteen years of life seemed to be condensed 
into one moment of dread. And yet go on I must, praying 
to God to protect us and let me find father. I pushed 
ahead, with panic holding me in its wild grip as I pictured a 
horrible death if we should be captured by Indians. Then 
suddenly with wide-strained eyes and fluttering heart, I 
forgot all weariness and fear. In the far distance a dim, 
flickering light. Gripping Milt's arm, I whispered: 

"* Father!' 

"No sooner had I said it than I thought, 'Perhaps it is an 
Indian camp-fire.' But common sense put that aside, for I 
was sure I had seen father's horse's hoofprints, and certainly 
they would lead to him. But suppose he had been captured 
by Indians, and this fire we were coming to should lead to 
horrible disclosures. All this went through my mind, but I 
said nothing of it to Milton. I just went walking steadily on. 
Oh, how far away the light was ! Would we never reach it ^ 
It seemed as if the more we walked the farther from it we 
were. But no, it was he — it was — it was ! With a glad cry 
14 195 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

of, *0h, father! father!' I rushed forward and flung myself 
in his arms. 

"'My child, my Virginia!' he exclaimed, when surprise 
had let him find his voice. *You should not have come 
here!' 

"'But I am here,' I cried, 'and I've brought you some 
food and your gun, and a blanket, and a little coflFee, and 
some crackers ! And here's a tin cup, too, and your pistols, 
and some powder and caps. Oh, and here are some matches, 
too!' I exclaimed, holding out one after another of 
the precious articles to his astonished gaze, and laughing and 
crying as I talked. 

" It was almost pitiful to see father's astonishment at the 
thought that some one had come to help him in his terrible 
plight, and as he took the things I had brought he kissed 
and fondled me Hke a little child, and said that, God helping 
him, he would hurry on to California and secure a home for 
his beloved family — and it seems conceited to mention it, 
but he called me his 'brave daughter' over and over again, 
until I was glad of the darkness to hide my burning cheeks. 
Then in the protecting darkness, with Milton to stand 
guard, we sat together and talked of mother and Patty and 
the boys, and of what we should do while we were parted 
from him. Father was the first to remember that dawn 
would soon flush the east, and rising, he kissed me again 
and tried to say farewell. 

'"But I'm not going back!' I cried. 'I'm going with you. 
Milt will go back, but I am going on with you.' Seeing his 
stern, set face, I pleaded, piteously: 'Oh, don't send me 
back — I can never bear to see those cruel men again. Let 
me go with you ?' He turned a white, drawn face to mine. 

"'For mother's sake, dear,' he said, 'go back and take 
care of her. God will care for me.' Before I could cry out 
or make a move to go with him, he had gathered up the 

196 



VIRGINIA REED 

articles I had brought him, jumped on his horse, and ridden 
away into the soHtude of the Western desert. Milton and I 
were left alone to find our way back to the encampment 
where mother was watching and waiting for me with an 
eager, aching heart. When my straining eyes had seen the 
last of that solitary figure riding off into the black desert, I 
turned abruptly away, and Milt and I crept back over the 
vast desert. Before there was a glimmer of dawn I was 
safely clasped in mother's arms, repeated my comforting 
news over and over again that we had found father, that he 
was well and on his way to that land toward which our own 
faces were turned." 

In this simple, direct fashion has Virginia Reed told of a 
heroic deed in the history of brave pioneer girls — but as the 
story comes from her pen, it is scarcely possible to realize 
the anxiety, the torturing fear, the hideous danger of such an 
expedition as that one of hers when at midnight, on the great 
plains, she set out to find her father. 

"After that," she says, ''though we were obliged to travel 
on, and though the party tried to be friendly with us, our 
hearts were sore and our thoughts were centered on father, 
journeying on alone. But as we went on we found welcome 
surprises by the way. A note written by him, stuck on a 
forked twig by the wayside, feathers scattered over the path 
to show that he had killed a bird and was not hungry. 
When we had found such evidence of his being alive and 
well, mother would be light-hearted for a whole day. Then 
the signs ceased, and mother's despair was pitiful to see. 
Had he been killed by the Indians or perhaps died of 
starvation? Patty and I were afraid we would lose mother, 
too. But starvation was menacing the whole party, and she 
was roused to new strength in a desire to protect her children 
from that fate. And even more ominous in their portent of 
disaster, before us rose the snow-capped Sierra Nevada 

197 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

mountains, which we must cross before the heavy snows 
fell, and the question was, could we do it? We left our 
wagon behind, which was too heavy for the mountain trip, 
placed in it every article we could do without, packed what 
we needed in another, and struggled on as best we could un- 
til the 19th of October, when we had a great joy. As we were 
wearily travehng along the Truckee, up rode Mr. Stanton 
and with him were seven mules loaded with provisions! 
No angel from the skies could have been more welcome, and, 
hungry though we were, better than food was the news that 
father was alive and pushing on to the west. Mr. Stanton 
had met him near Sutter's Fort, and had given him provi- 
sions and a fresh horse. Oh, how relieved mother was! I 
think she could not have eaten a mouthful, hungry as she 
was, without the glad tidings. Father had asked Mr. 
Stanton to personally conduct us across the Sierras before 
snow came, which he had promised to do, so with new cour- 
age we hurried on, keeping a close watch on those gaunt 
peaks ahead of us, which we must climb before realizing our 
dreams. Although it was so early in the season, all trails 
were covered with snow, but we struggled on, mother riding 
one mule with Tommy in her lap, Patty and Jim on another, 
behind two Indians who had accompanied Mr. Stanton, and 
I riding behind our leader. But though we did all in our 
power to travel fast, we were obliged to call a halt before 
we reached the summit, and camp only three miles this side 
of the crest of the mountain range. 

**That night," says Virginia, "came the dreaded snow. 
Around the camp-fires under the trees great feathery flakes 
came whirling down. The air was so full of them that one 
could see objects only a few feet away. The Indians knew 
we were doomed and one of them wrapped his blanket 
about him and stood all night under a tree. We children 
slept soundly on our cold bed of snow, which fell over us so 

198 



VIRGINIA REED 

thickly that every few moments my mother would have to 
shake the shawl — our only covering — to keep us from being 
buried alive. In the morning the snow lay deep on moun- 
tain and valley, and we were forced to turn back to a lake we 
had passed, which was afterward called 'Donner Lake,' 
where the men hastily put up some rough cabins — three of 
them known as the Breen cabin, the Murphy cabin, and the 
Reed-Graves cabin. Then the cattle were all killed, and the 
meat was placed in the snow to preserve it, and we tried to 
settle down as comfortably as we could, until the season of 
snow and ice should be over. But the comfort was a poor 
imitation of the real thing, and now and then, in desperation, 
a party started out to try to cross the mountains, but they 
were always driven back by the pitiless storms. Finally, a 
party of fifteen, known in later days as the 'Forlorn Hopes,' 
started out, ten men and five women, on snow-shoes, led by 
noble Mr. Stanton, and we heard no more of them until 
months afterward. 

"No pen can describe the dreary hopelessness of those 
who spent that winter at Donner Lake," says Virginia. 
"Our daily Hfe in that dark httle cabin under the snow would 
fill pages and make the coldest heart ache. Only one 
memory stands out with any bright gleam. Christmas was 
near, and there was no way of making it a happy time. 
But my mother was determined to give us a treat on that 
day. She had hidden away a small store of provisions — a 
few dried apples, some beans, a bit of tripe, and a small piece 
of bacon. These she brought out, and when we saw the 
treasures we shouted for joy, and watched the meal cooking 
with hunger-sharpened eyes. Mother smiled at out delight 
and cautioned: 

"'Children, eat slowly, for this one day you can have all 
you wish!' and never has any Christmas feast since driven 
out of my memory that most memorable one at Donner Lake. 

199 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

" Somehow or other the cold dark days and weeks passed, 
but as they went by our store of suppHes grew less and less, 
and many died from cold and hunger. Frequently we had 
to cut chips from the inside of our cabin to start a fire, and 
we were so weak from want of food that we could scarcely 
drag ourselves from one cabin to the other, and so four 
dreadful months wore away. Then came a day when a fact 
stared us in the face. We were starving. With an almost 
superhuman strength mother roused. *I am going to walk 
across the mountains,' she said; *I cannot see my children 
die for lack of food.' Quickly I stood beside her. 'I will 
go, too,' I said. Up rose Milt and Eliza. *We will go 
with you, they said. Leaving the children to be cared for by 
the Breens and Murphys, we made a brave start. Milt 
led the way on snow-shoes and we followed in his tracks, but 
Eliza gave out on the first day and had to go back, and after 
five days in the mountains, we, too, turned back and mother 
was almost exhausted, and we went back just in time, for 
that night there was the most fearful storm of the winter, 
and we should have died if we had not had the shelter of our 
cabins. My feet had been badly frozen, and mother was 
utterly spent from cHmbing one high mountain after another, 
but we felt no lasting bad effects from the venture. But we 
had no food! Our cabins were roofed over with hides, 
which now we had to take down and boil for food. They 
saved life, but to eat them was like eating a pot of glue, and 
I could not swallow them. The roof of our cabin having 
been taken off, the Breens gave us a shelter, and when Mrs. 
Breen discovered what I had tried to hide from my own 
family, that I could not eat the hide, she gave me little bits 
of meat now and then from their fast-dwindling store. 

"One thing was my great comfort from that time," says 
Virginia. "The Breens were the only Catholics in the party, 
and prayers were said regularly every night and morning in 



VIRGINIA REED 

their little cabin, Mr. Breen reading by the light of a small 
pine torch, which I held, kneeling by his side. There was 
something inexpressibly comforting to me in this simple 
service, and one night when we had all gone to bed, huddled 
together to keep from freezing, and I felt it would not be 
long before we would all go to sleep never to wake again in 
this world, all at once I found myself on my knees, looking 
up through the darkness and making a vow that if God 
would send us relief and let me see my father again, I would 
become a Catholic. And my prayer was answered. 

"On the evening of February 19th, we were in the cabin, 
weak and starving, when we heard Mr. Breen's voice outside, 
crying: 

" ' Relief, thank God ! Relief!' 

" In a moment, before our unbelieving eyes, stood seven men 
sent by Captain Sutter from the fort, and they had brought 
an ample supply of flour and jerked beef, to save us from the 
death which had already overtaken so many of our party. 
There was joy at Donner Lake that night, for the men said: 
* Relief parties will come and go until you have all crossed 
the mountains safely.' But," Virginia's diary says: 
"mingled with one joy were bitter tears. Even strong men 
sat and wept as they saw the dead lying about on the snow, 
some even unburied, as the living had not had strength to 
bury them. I sorrowed most for Milt Elliott — our faithful 
friend, who seemed so like a brother, and when he died, 
mother and I dragged him out of the cabin and covered him 
with snow, and I patted the pure white snow down softly 
over all but his face — and dragged myself away, with a heart 
aching from the pain of such a loss. 

" But we were obliged to turn our thoughts to the living and 
their future, and eagerly hstened to the story of the men, who 
told us that when father arrived at Sutter's Fort, after meet- 
ing Mr. Stanton, he told Captain Sutter of our desperate 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

plight and the captain at once furnished horses and supplies, 
with which father and Mr. McCutchen started back, but 
were obUged to return to the fort, and while they were con- 
ferring with Captain Sutter about their next move, the seven 
living members of the * Forlorn Hope' party who had left 
us the first part of the winter, arrived at the fort. Their 
pale, worn faces told the story and touched all hearts. 
Cattle were killed and men were up all night drying beef and 
making flour by hand-mills for us; then the party started 
out to our rescue and they had not reached us one moment 
too soon! 

"Three days later, the first relief started from Donner 
Lake with a party of twenty-three men, women, and children, 
and our family was among them. It was a bright, sunny 
day and we felt happy, but we had not gone far when Patty 
and Tommy gave out. As gently as possible I told mother 
that they would have to go back to the lake and wait for the 
next expedition. Mother insisted that she would go back 
with them, but the relief party would not allow this, and 
finally she gave in and let the children go in care of a Mr. 
Hover. Even the bravest of the men had tears in their 
eyes when little Patty patted mother's cheek and said, 
*I want to see papa, but I will take good care of Tommy, 
and I do not want you to come back.' Meanwhile we 
traveled on, heavy-hearted, struggling through the snow 
single file. The men on snow-shoes broke the way and we 
followed in their tracks. At night we lay down on the snow 
to sleep, to awake to find our clothing all frozen. At break 
of day we were on the road again. . . . The sunshine, which 
it would seem would have been welcome, only added to our 
misery. The dazzling reflection made it very trying to our 
eyes, while its heat melted our frozen clothing and made it 
cling to our bodies. Jim was too small to step in the tracks 
made by the men, and to walk at all he had to place his knee 

202 



VIRGINIA REED 

on the little hill of snow after each step, and climb over it. 
Mother and I coaxed him along by telling him that every 
step he took he was getting nearer papa and nearer something 
to eat. He was the youngest child that walked over the 
Sierra Nevada. 

"On their way to our rescue the relief party from Sutter's 
Fort had left meat hanging on a tree for our use as we came 
out. What was their horror when we reached the spot to 
find that it had been taken by wild animals. We were 
starving again — where could we get food .? As we were try- 
ing to decide on our next move, one of the men who was in 
the lead ahead stopped, turned, and called out: 

"*Is Mrs. Reed with you.^* If she is, tell her Mr. Reed is 
here!' There before us stood father! At the sight, mother, 
weak with joy, fell on her knees with outstretched arms, 
while I tried to run to meet him, but found myself too much 
exhausted, so I just held out my arms, too, and waited! 
In a moment he was where we could touch him and know 
that he was flesh and blood and not just a beautiful dream. 
He had planned to meet us just where we were, and had 
brought with him fourteen men and a generous supply of 
bread. 

" As he knelt and clasped mother in his arms she told him 
that Patty and Tommy were still at the lake, and with a 
horrified exclamation, he started to his feet. *I must go for 
them at once,' he said. *There is no time to lose.' With 
one long embrace oflF he went as if on winged feet, traveling 
the distance which had taken us five days to go in two, we 
afterward heard. He found the children alive, to his great 
joy, but, oh, what a sight met his gaze! The famished httle 
children and the death-Hke look of all at the lake made his 
heart ache. He filled Patty's apron with biscuits, which she 
carried around, giving one to each person. He also had soup 
made for the infirm, and rendered every'possible assistance to 

203 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

the sufferers, then, leaving them with provisions for seven 
days, he started off, taking with him seventeen who were 
able to travel, and leaving at the lake three of his men to aid 
those who were too weak to walk. 

" Almost as soon as father's party started out, they were 
caught in a terrible snow-storm and hurricane, and his 
description of the scene later was heart-breaking, as he told 
about the crying of the half-frozen children, the lamenting 
of the mothers and suffering of the whole party, while above 
all could be heard the shrieking of the storm king. One who 
has never seen a blizzard in the Sierras can have no idea of 
the situation, but we knew. All night father and his men 
worked in the raging storm, trying to put up shelters for the 
dying women and children, while at times the hurricane 
would burst forth with such fury that he felt frightened on 
account of the tall timber surrounding the camp. The 
party was almost without food, having left so much with the 
sufferers at the lake. Father had cached provisions on his 
way to the lake, and had sent three men forward to get it 
before the storm set in, but they could not get back. At one 
time the fire was nearly gone; had it been lost, all would 
have perished. For three days and three nights they were 
exposed to the fury of that terrible storm; then father 
became snow-bhnd, and would have died if two of his faithful 
comrades had not worked over him all night, but from that 
time all responsibility of the relief work was taken from him, 
as he was physically unfit. 

"At last the storm abated, and the party halted, while 
father with Mr. McCutchen and Mr. Miller went on ahead 
to send back aid for those who were exhausted from the 
terrible journeying. Hiram Miller carried Tommy, while 
Patty started bravely to walk, but soon she sank on the snow 
and seemed to be dying. All gathered around in frantic 
efforts to revive the child, and luckily father found some 

204 



VIRGINIA REED 

crumbs in the thumb of his woolen mitten which he warmed 
and moistened between his own Hps, and fed Patty. Slowly 
she came to Hfe again, and was carried along by different 
ones in the company, so that by the time the party reached 
Woodworth's Camp she was quite herself again, and as she 
sat cozily before a big camp-fire she fondled and talked to a 
tiny doll which had traveled with her all the way from 
Springfield and which was her chosen confidante. 

" As soon as father's party reached Woodworth's Camp a 
third relief party started back to help those who were slowly 
following, and still another party went on to Donner Lake 
to the reHef of those who were still living. But many of 
that emigrant band He sleeping to-day on the shore of that 
quiet mountain lake, for out of the eighty-three persons who 
were snowed in there, forty-two died, and of the thirty-one 
emigrants who left Springfield on that lovely April morning 
of 1846, only eighteen lived to reach CaHfornia. Among 
them were our family, who, despite the terrible hardships 
and hideous privations we had suffered, yet seemed to have 
been especially watched over by a kind Providence, for we all 
lived to reach our goal, and were the only family who were 
not obliged at some part of the journey to subsist on human 
flesh to keep from perishing. God was good to our famly, 
and I, Virginia, testify to the heroic qualities which were 
developed in even the youngest of us, and for my own part, I 
gratefully recognize the blessings which came to me from an 
unquaHfied faith in God and an unfaltering trust that He 
would take care of us — which He did. 

" Mother, Jimmy and I reached California and were taken 
at once to the home of the mayor, Mr. Sinclair, where we 
were given a warm welcome and where nothing was left 
undone for our comfort. But we were still too anxious to be 
happy, for we knew that father's party had been caught in 
the storm." Virginia says: "I can see mother now as she 

205 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

stood leaning against the door for hours at a time, looking 
at the mountains. At last — oh wonderful day — they came, 
father, Patty and Tommy! In the moment of blissful 
reunion tears and smiles intermingled and all the bitterness 
and losses and sorrows of the cruel journey were washed 
away, leaving only a tender memory of those noble souls 
who had fared forth, not to the land of their dreams, but to a 
far country whose maker and builder is God. 
" And for us, it was spring in Cahfornia!" 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT: AUTHOR OF 
"LITTLE WOMEN" 

IN a pleasant, shady garden in Concord, Massachusetts, 
under a gnarled old apple-tree, sat a very studious looking 
little person, bending over a sheet of paper on which she was 
writing. She had made a seat out of a tree stump, and a 
table by laying a board across two carpenter's horses, whose 
owner was working in the house, and no scholar writing a 
treatise on some deep subject could have been more absorbed 
in his work than was the little girl in the garden. 

For a whole long hour she wrote, frequently stopping to 
look off into the distance and bite the end of her pencil with a 
very learned look, then she would bend over her paper again 
and write hard and fast. Finally, she laid down her pencil 
with an air of triumph, jumped up from the stump and 
rushed toward the house. 

"Mother! Anna! I've written a poem about the robin 
we found this morning in the garden!" Dashing into the 
hbrary she waved the paper in the air with a still more 
excited cry: "Listen!" and dropped on the floor to read 
her poem to a much thrilled audience of two. With great 
dramatic effect she read her lines, glancmg up from time to 
time to see that she was producing the proper effect. This 
is what she read: 

TO THE FIRST ROBIN 

Welcome, welcome, little stranger. 
Fear no harm and fear no danger, 
V/e are glad to see you here, 
For you sing "Sweet Spring is near.'* 
207 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

Now the white snow melts away. 
Now the flowers blossom gay. 
Come, dear bird, and build your nest, 
For we love our robin best. 

She finished with an upward tilt of her voice, while her 
mother excitedly flourished the stocking she was darning 
over her head, crying: "Good! Splendid!" and quiet Anna 
echoed the words, looking with awe at her small sister, as she 
added, "It's just like Shakespeare!" 

The proud mother did not say much more in praise of the 
budding poetesses's effort, for fear of making her conceited; 
but that night, after the verses had been read to a delighted 
father, and the young author had gone happily off to bed, 
the mother said: 

"I do believe she is going to be a genius, Bronson!" 

Yet, despite the prediction, even an appreciative parent 
would have been more than surprised had she been able to 
look into the future and had seen her daughter as one of the 
most famous writer of books for young people of her genera- 
tion. The Httle girl who sat under the apple-tree on that day 
in early spring and wrote the verses was no other than Louisa 
May Alcott, and her tribute to the robin was to be treasured 
in after years as the first evidence of its writer's talent. 

Louisa, the second daughter of Amos Bronson and Abba 
May Alcott, was born in Germantown, Pa., on the 29th of 
November, 1832, and was fortunate in being the child of 
parents who not only understood the intense, restless and 
emotional nature of this daughter, but were deeply interested 
in developing it in such a way that her marked traits would 
be valuable to her in later Hfe. To this unfailing sympathy 
of both father and mother the turbulent nature owed much 
of its rich achievement, and Louisa Alcott's home sur- 
roundings and influences had as much to do with her success 
as a writer as had her talent, great as that was. 

208 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

At the time of her birth her father was teaching school in 
Germantown, but he was a man whose ideas were original 
and far in advance of his time, and his way of teaching was 
not Hked by the parents of his pupils, so when Louisa was 
two years old and her older sister, Anna, four, the family 
went to Boston, where Mr. Alcott opened his famous school 
in Masonic Temple, and enjoyed teaching by his own new 
methods, and when he was happy his devoted wife was 
equally contented. 

Louisa was too young to go to school then, except as a 
visitor, but her father developed her young mind at home 
according to his own theories of education, and during the 
remainder of the ail-too short days the active child was free 
to amuse herself as she chose. To play on the Common was 
her great deHght, for she was a born investigator, and there 
she met children of all classes, who appealed to her many- 
sided nature in different ways. Louisa was never a respecter 
of class distinctions — it did not matter to her where people 
lived, or whether their hands and faces were dirty, if some 
personal characteristic attracted her to them, and from those 
early days she was unconsciously studying human nature, 
and making ready for the work of later years. 

In her own sketch of those early days, she says: 

*' Running away was one of my great denghts,"and I still 
enjoy sudden flights out of the nest to look about this very 
interesting world and then go back to report!" 

On one of her investigating tours, she met some Irish 
children whose friendHness dehghted her, and she spent a 
wonderful day with them, sharing their dinner of cold pota- 
toes, salt fish and bread crusts. Then — deHghtful pastime — 
they all played in the ash-heaps for some time, and took a 
trip to the Common together. But when twilight came, her 
new friends deserted her, leaving her a long way from home, 
and little Louisa began to think very longingly of her mother 

209 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

and sister. But as she did not know how to find her way 
back she sat down on a doorstep, where a big dog was lying. 
He was so friendly that she cuddled up against his broad 
back and fell asleep. How long she slept she did not know, 
but she was awakened by the loud ringing of a bell, and a 
man's deep voice calHng: 

" Little girl lost ! Six years old — in a pink frock, white hat 
and new green shoes. Little girl lost! Little girl lost!'* 

It was the town crier, and as he rang his bell and gave his 
loud cry, out of the darkness he heard a small voice exclaim: 

"Why, dat's me!" 

With great difficulty the crier was able to pursuade the 
child to unclasp her arms from the neck of the big friendly 
dog, but at last she left him, and was taken to the crier's 
home and "feasted sumptuously on bread and molasses in a 
tin plate with the alphabet round it," while her frantic 
family was being notified. The unhappy ending to that 
incident is very tersely told by Louisa, who says: "My fun 
ended the next day, when I was tied to the arm of the sofa to 
repent at leisure!" 

That the six years spent in Boston were happy ones, and 
that the budding spirit of Louisa was filled with joy at merely 
being aHve, was shown one morning, when, at the breakfast 
table, she suddenly looked up with an all-embrasive smile 
and exclaimed: 

"I love everybody in dis whole world!" 

Despite the merriment which was always a feature of the 
Alcott home, as they were all blessed with a sense of humor 
which helped them over many a hard place, there was an 
underlying anxiety for Mr. and Mrs. Alcott, as the school 
was gradually growing smaller and there was barely enough 
income to support their family, to which a third daughter, 
EHzabeth, the "Beth" of Little Women, had been added 
recently. During those days they lived on very simple 

2IO 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

fare, which the children disliked, as their rice had to be eaten 
without sugar and their mush without butter or molasses. 
Nor did Mr. Alcott allow meat on his table, as he thought it 
wrong to eat any creature which had to be killed for the 
purpose. An old famil}^ friend who lived at a Boston hotel 
sympathized strongly with the children's longing for sweets, 
and every day at dinner she saved them a piece of pie or cake, 
which Louisa would call for, carrying a bandbox for the 
purpose. The friend was in" Europe for years, and when she 
returned Louisa Alcott had become famous. Meeting her 
on the street one day, Louisa greeted her old friend, eagerly: 

"Why, I did not think you would remember me!" said the 
old lady. 

"Do you suppose I shall ever forget that bandbox!" was 
the quick reply. 

As time went on, Mr. Alcott's school dwindled until he 
had only five scholars, and three of them were his own chil- 
dren. Something new had to be tried, and quickly, so the 
family moved out of the city, into a small house at Concord, 
Mass., which had an orchard and a garden, and, best of all, 
the children had a big barn, where they gave all sorts of enter- 
tainments; mostly plays, as they were born actors. Their 
mother, or "Marmee," as the girls called her, loved the fun 
as well as they did, and would lay aside her work at any 
moment to make impossible costumes for fairies, gnomes, 
kings or peasants, who were to take the principal parts in 
some stirring melodrama written by the girls themselves, or 
some adaptation of an old fairy tale. They acted Jack the 
Giant-killer in fine style, and the giant came tumbling 
headlong from a loft when Jack cut down the squash-vine 
running up a ladder and supposed to represent the immortal 
beanstalk. At other performances Cinderella rolled away in 
an impressive pumpkin, and one of their star plays was a 
dramatic version of the story of the woman who wasted her 

15 211 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

thtee wishes, in which a long black pudding was lowered by 
invisible hands and slowly fastened onto her nose. 

But though the big barn often echoed with the sound of 
me'riyvoices, at other times the girls dressed up as pilgrims, 
;&nd journeyed over the hill with scrip and staff, and cockle 
shells in their hats; fairies held their revels among the whis- 
pering birches, and strawberry parties took place in the rus- 
tic arbor of the garden. 

And there we find eight-year-old Louisa writing her verses 
to the robin, with genius early beginning to burn in the 
small head which later proved to be so full of wonderful 
material for the delight of young people. 

"Those Concord days were the happiest of my Hfe," says 
Miss Alcott. "We had charming playmates in the little 
Emersons, Channings, Goodwins and Hawthornes, with the 
illustrious parents and their friends to enjoy our pranks and 
share our excursions. . . . My wise mother, anxious to give 
me a strong body to support a lively brain, turned me loose 
in the country and let me run wild, learning of Nature what 
no books can teach, and being led — as those who truly love 
her seldom fail to be — 'through Nature up to Nature's 
God.' " 

The Alcott children were encouraged to keep diaries in 
which they wrote down their thoughts and feelings and 
fancies, and even at that early age Louisa's journal was a 
record of deep feelings and of a child's sacred emotions. In 
one of her solemn moods, she makes this entry: 

"I had an early run in the woods before the dew was off 
the grass. The moss was Hke velvet, and as I ran under 
the arch of yellow and red leaves I sang for joy, my heart 
was so bright and the world so beautiful. I stopped at the 
end of the walk and saw the sunshine out over the wide 
'Virginia meadows.' 

"It seemed hke going through a dark Hfe or grave into 

212 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

heaven beyond. A very strange and solemn feeling came 
over me as I stood there, with no sound but the rustle of the 
pines, no one near me, and the sun so glorious, as for me 
alone. It seemed as id felt God as I never did before, and I 
prayed in my heart that I might keep that happy sense of 
nearness all my Hfe." 

To that entry there is a note added, years later: "7 havey 
for I most sincerely think that the little girl *got rehgion' 
that day in the wood, when dear Mother Nature led her to 
God."— L. M. A. 1885. 

That deep religious note in Louisa Alcott's nature is very 
marked and is evident in all of her work, but, on the other 
hand, she had a sparkling wit and such a keen sense of 
humor that in her blackest moods she could always see 
something funny to amuse her, and frequently laughed at 
her own expense. 

That her conscience was as active as her mind and her 
body is shown by one of her "private plays," which she 
makes Demi describe in Little Men. He says: 

"I play that my mind is a round room, and my soul is a 
little sort of creature with wings that lives in it. The walls 
are full of shelves and drawers, and in them I keep my 
thoughts, and my goodness and badness and all sorts of 
things. The goods I keep where I can see them, and the 
bads I lock up tight, but they get out, and I have to keep 
putting them in and squeezing them down, they are so 
strong. The thoughts I play with when I am alone or in bed, 
and I make up and do what I like with them. Every Sunday 
I put my room in order, and talk with the little spirit that 
lives there, and tell him what to do. He is very bad some- 
times and won't mind me, and I have to scold him." 

Truly a strange game for a child to play, but the Alcotts 
were brought up to a reverent knowledge of their souls as 
well as their bodies, and many a sober talk at twihght did 

213 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

mother or father have with the daughters to whom the 
experience of the older generation was helpful and inspiring. 
A very happy family they were, despite frequent lack of 
luxuries and even necessities, but loyalty and generosity as 
their marked characteristics. No matter how little money 
or food an Alcott had, it was always shared with any one who 
had less, and the largest share was usually given away. 

On Louisa's fourth birthday, she tells of a feast given in 
her honor in her father's school-room in Masonic Temple. 
All the children were there, and Louisa wore a crown of flowers 
and stood upon a table to give a cake to each child as they 
all marched around the table. "By some oversight," says 
Louisa, "the cakes fell short, and I saw that if I gave away 
the last one, / should have none. As I was queen of the 
revel, I felt that I ought to have it, and held on to it tightly, 
until my mother said : *It is always better to give away than 
to keep the nice things; so I know my Louy will not let the 
Httle friend go without.'" She adds: "The little friend 
received the dear plummy cake, and I . . . my first lesson 
in the sweetness of self-denial — a lesson which my dear 
mother illustrated all her long and noble life." 

At another time a starving family was discovered, when 
the Alcotts, forming in a procession, carried their own break- 
fast to the hungry ones. On one occasion, when a friend 
had unexpected guests arrive for dinner, too late to secure any 
extra provisions, the Alcotts with great glee lent their dinner 
to the thankful hostess, and thought it a good joke. Again, 
on a snowy Saturday night, when their wood-pile was extra 
low, and there was no way of getting any more that week, a 
poor child came to beg a Httle, as their baby was sick and 
the father on a spree with all his wages. At first Mrs. 
Alcott hesitated, as it was bitterly cold and Abba May, the 
little baby sister, was very young, but Mr. Alcott decided 
the matter with his usual kindly optimism. 

214 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

"Give half our stock and trust in Providence; the weather 
will moderate or wood will come," he declared. And the 
wood was lent, Mrs. Alcott cheerily agreeing: "Well, their 
need is greater than ours. If our half gives out we can go to 
bed and tell stories!" 

A little later in the evening, while it was still snowing 
heavily, and the Alcotts were about to cover their fire to 
keep it, a farmer who was in the habit of supplying them 
with wood knocked at the door and asked anxiously: 

"Wouldn't you Hke me to drop my load of wood here.? 
It would accommodate me, and you need not hurry to pay 
for it. I started for Boston with it but the snow is drifting 
so fast, I want to go home." 

"Yes," answered Mr. Alcott, and as the man went away, 
he turned to his wife and exclaimed: "Didn't I tell you that 
wood would come if the weather didn't moderate?" 

Again, a tramp asked Mr. Alcott to lend him five dollars. 
As he had only a ten-dollar bill, the dear man at once offered 
that, asking to have the change brought back as soon as 
possible. Despite the disbelief of his family in the tramp's 
honesty, the man did bring the five-dollar bill soon with 
profuse thanks, and the gentle philosopher's faith in human 
nature was not crushed. 

Still another experiment in generosity proved a harder 
one in its results to the Alcotts, when Mrs. Alcott allowed 
some poor emigrants to rest in her garden while she treated 
them to a bountiful meal. Unfortunately for their generous 
benefactor, in return they gave small-pox to the entire 
family, and, although the girls had light cases, Mr. and Mrs. 
Alcott were very sick and, as Miss Alcott records later: 
"We had a curious time of exile, danger and trouble." She 
adds: "No doctors and all got well." 

When Louisa Alcott was almost ten years old, and Anna 
twelve, Mr. Alcott took a trip to England, hoping to interest 

215 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

the people there in his new theories of education and of 
living. So enthusiastically and beautifully did he present 
his theories that he won many converts, and one of them, a 
Mr. Lane, returned to America with him to help him found a 
colony on the new ideas, which were more ideal than prac- 
tical, and so disapproved of by Mr. Alcott's friends, who 
thought him foohsh to waste time and money on them. 

However, after months of planning, Mr. Alcott, Mr. 
Lane and other enthusiasts decided to buy an estate of one 
hundred acres near Harvard Village, Mass., and establish 
the colony. The place was named " Fruitlands, " in anticipa- 
tion of future crops, and the men who were to start the com- 
munity were full of hope and enthusiasm, in which Mrs. 
Alcott did not share, as she knew her husband's visionary 
nature too well not to fear the result of such an experiment. 
However, she aided in making the plan as practical as she 
could, and drew such a rosy picture of their new home to the 
children that they expected life at Fruitlands to be a per- 
petual picnic. 

Alas for visions and for hopes! Although life at Fruit- 
lands had its moments of sunshine and happiness, yet they 
were far overbalanced by hard work, small results and in- 
creasing worry over money matters, and at last, after four 
years of struggle to make ends meet, Mr. Alcott was obHged 
to face the fact that the experiment had been an utter failure, 
that he had exhausted his resources of mind, body and 
estate. It was a black time for the gentle dreamer, and for a 
while it seemed as if despair would overwhelm him. But 
with his brave wife to help him and the children's welfare 
to think of, he shook off his despondency bravely, and de- 
cided to make a fresh start. So Mrs. Alcott wrote to her 
brother in Boston for help, sold all the furniture they could 
spare, and went to Still River, the nearest village to Fruit- 
lands, and engaged four rooms. "Then on a bleak December 

216 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

day the Alcott family emerged from the snowbank in which 
Fruitlands, now re-christened Apple Stump by Mrs. Alcott, 
lay hidden. Their worldly goods were piled on an ox-sled, 
the four girls on the top, while father and mother trudged 
arm in arm behind, poorer indeed in worldly goods, but 
richer in love and faith and patience, and alas, experience." 

After a winter in Still River they went back to Concord, 
where they occupied a few rooms in the house of a sympa- 
thetic friend — not all their friends were sympathetic, by any 
means, as most of them had warned Mr. Alcott of this ending 
to his experiment. But all were kindly as they saw the 
family take up Hfe bravely in Concord again, with even fewer 
necessities and comforts than before. Both Mr. and Mrs. 
Alcott did whatever work they could find to do, thinking 
nothing too menial if it provided food and clothing for their 
family. Naturally the education of the children was 
rather fragmentary and insufficient, but it developed their 
own powers of thinking. Through the pages of their diaries 
in which they wrote regularly, and which were open to their 
mother and father, they learned to express their thoughts 
clearly on all subjects. Also they were encouraged to read 
freely, while only the best books were within their reach. 
Louisa's poetic and dramatic efforts were not ridiculed, but 
criticized as carefully as if they had been masterpieces, so 
she had no fear of expressing her deepest thoughts, but acted 
out her own nature freely and fearlessly. 

In fact the four daughters were happy, wholesome, hearty 
girls, whose frolics and pastimes took such unique forms that 
people wondered whether they were the result of Mr. Al- 
cott's theories, and Miss Alcott tells of one afternoon when 
Mr. Emerson and Margaret Fuller were visiting her mother 
and the conversation drifted to the subject of education. 
Turning to Mr. Alcott, Miss Fuller said : 

"Well, Mr. Alcott, you have been able to carry out your 
217 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

methods in your own family; I should like to see your model 
children." 

.A few moments later, as the guests stood on the door- 
step, ready to leave, there was a wild uproar heard in the 
near distance and round the corner of the house came a 
wheel-barrow holding baby May, dressed as a queen; Miss 
Alcott says: "I was the horse, bitted and bridled, and 
driven by my sister Anna, while Lizzie played dog and 
barked as loud as her gentle voice permitted. 

"All were shouting and wild with fun, which, how- 
ever, came to a sudden end, for my foot tripped and 
down we all went in a laughing heap, while my mother 
put a climax to the joke by saying with a dramatic wave 
of the hand: 

"Here are the model children. Miss Fuller!" 

When Mrs. Alcott's father. Colonel May, died, he left his 
daughter a small property, and she now determined to buy a 
house in Concord with it, so that whatever the varying 
fortunes of the family might be in future they would at least 
have a roof over their heads. An additional amount of five 
hundred dollars was added by Mr. Emerson, who was al- 
ways the good angel of the family, and the place in Concord 
known as "Hillside" was bought, where Hfe and work began 
in earnest for Louisa and her sisters, for only too clearly 
they saw the heavy weight that was being laid on their 
mother's shoulders. 

Louisa was growing in body and spirit in those days, 
stretching up physically and mentally, and among the sources 
of her finest inspiration was the gentle reformer, philosopher 
and writer, Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was ever her father's 
loyal friend and helper. Louisa's warm Uttle heart enshrined 
the calm, great-minded man who always understood things, 
and after she had read Goethe's correspondence with Bet- 
tine, she, hke Bettine, placed her idol on a pedestal and wor- 

218 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

shipped him in a truly romantic fashion. At night, after 
she had gone to her room, she wrote him long passionate 
letters, expressing her devotion, but she never sent the let- 
ters — only told him of them in later years, when they laughed 
together over her girlish fancy. Once, she confessed to 
having sat in a tall cherry-tree at midnight and sung to the 
moon until the owls scared her to bed; and of having sung 
Mignon's song under his window in very bad German, and 
strewed wild flowers over his door-step in the darkness. 
This sounds very sentimental and silly, but Louisa was never 
that. She had a deep, intense nature, which as yet had 
found no outlet or expression, and she could have had no 
safer hero to worship than this gentle, serene, wise man whose 
friendship for her family was so practical in its expression. 
Also at that period, which Louisa herself in her diary calls 
the ''sentimental period," she was strongly influenced by 
the poet and naturalist, Thoreau. From him she learned to 
know Nature in a closer and more loving intimacy. Thoreau 
was called a hermit, and known as a genius, and more often 
than not he could be found in his hut in the woods, or on 
the river bank, where he learned to look for the bright-eyed 
"Alcott girl," who would swing along his side in twenty-mile 
tramps, eager and inquisitive about everything, learning 
new facts about flowers and trees and birds and insects from 
the great man at her side. Truly a fortunate girl was 
Louisa, with two such friends and teachers as the great 
Emerson and Thoreau. Hawthorne, too, fascinated her in 
his shy reserve, and the young girl in her teens with a tre- 
mendous ability to do and to be something worth while in 
Hfe could have had no more valuable preface to her life as a 
writer than that of the happy growing days at Concord, 
with that group of remarkable men. 

At that time she did not think seriously of having talent 
for writing, as she had only written a half-dozen pieces of 

219 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

verse, among them one called "My Kingdom," which has 
been preserved as a bit of girhsh yearning for the best in 
religion and in character, sweetly expressed, and some 
thriUing melodramas for the "troupe" in the barn to act. 
These were overflowing with villains and heroes, and were 
lurid enough to satisfy the most intense of her audience. 
Later some of them were collected under the title of "Comic 
Tragedies" — but at best they only serve to show how full of 
imaginative possibilities the girl's nature was. 

Although the Alcotts had their own home in Concord now, 
it was yet almost impossible to make ends meet, and with the 
sturdy independence which proved to be one of her marked 
traits, Louisa determined to earn some money and add to 
the family income. It was no easy thing to do, for there 
were few avenues of work open to girls in that day. But 
she could teach, for it was quite a popular resource to open a 
small school in some barn, with a select set of pupils. Louisa 
herself had been to one of these "barn schools," and now she 
opened one in Mr. Emerson's barn, but it paid very poorly, as 
did everything which the Alcotts attempted to do. The 
brave mother was so completely discouraged, that when one 
day a friend passing through Concord called on her, Mrs 
Alcott confessed the state of her financial affairs. As a 
result of that confession, the family once more migrated to 
Boston, leaving the Hawthornes as occupants of "Hillside." 
In the city Mrs. Alcott was given a position as visitor to the 
poor by a benevolent association, and she also kept an 
employment agency — a more respectable occupation than 
it was in later years. Once more there was money in the 
treasury, and with their usual happy optimism the family 
cheered up and decided that life was worth Hving, even under 
the most trying circumstances. While his wife was busy 
in that way, Mr. Alcott gradually drew a circle of people 
around him to whom his theories of life were acceptable, and 

220 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

who paid a small price to attend the "conversations" he 
held on subjects which interested him to discuss. Being 
appreciated, even by a small audience, was balm to the 
wounded spirit of the gentle philosopher, whose " Fruitlands " 
experiment had been such a bitter one, and now he was as 
happy as though he were earning large amounts by his 
work, instead of the meager sum paid by his disciples to hear 
him talk of his pet theories. But he was contented, and his 
happiness was reflected by his adoring family. Mrs. Alcott, 
too, was satisfied with the work she was doing, so for a time 
all went well with the "Pathetic Family" as Louisa had 
christened them. 

Louisa, meanwhile, was learning many lessons as she 
traveled slowly up the road to womanhood — learning cour- 
age and self-denial, linked with cheerfulness from mother 
and father, and enjoying a wholesome comradeship in the 
home hfe with her sisters. 

Anna, the oldest daughter, was much like her father. She 
never worried about her soul or her shortcomings as Louisa 
did; she accepted Hfe as it came, without question, and was 
of a calm nature, unhke turbulent, questioning Louisa, who 
had as many moods as there were hours in a day and who 
found ruling her tempestuous nature the hardest piece of 
work life offered her. She confesses in her diary: "My 
quick tongue is always getting me into trouble, and my 
moodiness makes it hard to be cheerful when I think how 
poor we are, how much worry it is to live, and how many 
things I long to do — I never can. So every day is a battle, 
and I'm so tired I don't want to live, only it's cowardly to 
die till you have done something." Having made this con- 
fession to an unresponsive page of her journal, the restless 
nature gave up the desire to be a coward, and turned to 
achieving whatever work might come to her hand to do, 
little dreaming what was before her in the coming years. 

221 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

She was very fine looking, of which she evidently was con- 
scious, for she says in her diary: 

**If I look in my glass I try to keep down vanity about my 
long hair, my well-shaped head, and my good nose." Be- 
sides these good points of which she speaks so frankly, she 
was tall and graceful, with a heavy mass of glossy, chestnut- 
brown hair. Her complexion was clear and full of color, and 
her dark-blue eyes were deep-set and very expressive. 

During those years in Boston, the Alcotts spent two sum- 
mers in an uncle's roomy house, where they enjoyed such 
comforts as had not before fallen to their lot, and calm 
Anna, sweet retiring Beth, or Betty, as she was called, and 
artistic May, the youngest of the flock, revelled in having 
rooms of their own, and plenty of space for their own be- 
longings. May was a pretty, golden-haired, blue-eyed 
child with decided tastes, and an ability to get what she 
most wanted in hfe without much eff'ort — an ability which 
poor Louisa entirely lacked, for her success always came as 
the result of exhausting work. 

Louisa was now seventeen years old, and Anna nineteen. 
At that time came the small-pox siege, and after Anna had 
recovered partially she was obhged to take a rest, leaving 
her small school in Louisa's charge. There were twenty 
scholars, and it was a great responsibiHty for the girl of 
seventeen, but she took up the work with such enthusiasm 
that she managed to captivate her pupils, whose attention 
she held by illustrating many of their lessons with original 
stories, teUing them in a way they would never forget. 
When Anna came back the school was so flourishing that 
Louisa continued to help with the teaching, and it seemed 
probable that she had found her greatest talent, although 
little did she guess how many interesting avenues of experi- 
ence were to widen before her wondering eyes before she 
was to settle down to her life-work. 

222 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

Meanwhile she kept on helping Anna with her school, and 
to liven up the daily routine of a rather dull existence she 
began to write thrilling plays, which she always read to 
Anna, who criticized and helped revise them with sisterly se- 
verity. The plays were acted by a group of the girls' friends, 
with Anna and Louisa usually taking the principal parts. 
From creating these wonderful melodramas, which always 
won loud applause from an enthusiastic audience, and be- 
cause of her real abihty to act, Louisa now decided that she 
would go on the real stage. "Anna wants to be an actress, 
and so do I," she wrote in her diary. "We could make 
plenty of money perhaps, and it is a very gay life. Mother 
says we are too young, and must wait." 

Wise mother, and firm as wise! The girls were obliged 
to accept her decree, and Louisawas so depressed by it that for 
a time she made every one miserable by her down-cast mood. 
Then, fortunately, an interested relative showed one of her 
plays to the manager of the Boston Theater. He read 
"The Rival Prima Donnas" with kindly eyes, and offered to 
stage it. Here was good luck indeed! The entire Alcott 
family held as great a jubilation when they heard the news as 
if they had fallen heir to a fortune, and Louisa at once forgot 
her ambition to act, in her ambition to be known as a suc- 
cessful play-wright. 

Unfortunately, there was some hitch in the arrangements, 
and the play was never produced, but the manager sent 
Louisa a free pass to the theater, which gave her a play- 
wright's pride whenever she used it, and her enjoyment in 
anticipating the production had been so great that she was 
able to bear the actual disappointment with real philosophy. 
And bythattime her mood had changed. Although she always 
loved to act, and acted well, her own good sense had asserted 
itself, and she had set aside a dramatic career, realizing 
that it included too many difficulties and hardships. 

223 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

Her next adventure was quite different. To her mother's 
employment office came a gentleman who wished a com- 
panion for his old father and sister. The position offered 
only light work, and seemed a good one in every respect, and 
impulsive Louisa, who happened to hear the request, asked 
her mother, eagerly: "Can't I go? Oh, do let me take it!" 
Her mother, thinking the experience would not be harmful, 
let her accept the position, and as a result she had two of the 
most disillusioning and hard months of her Hfe. She had 
her revenge later by writing a story called "How I Went Out 
to Service," in which she described the experience in a vivid 
way. 

An extract from her "heart journal," as she now called 
her diary, is a revelation of home life which gave to Louisa 
much of that understanding of human nature which has 
made her books so popular. She says: "Our poor little 
home had much love and happiness in it, and was a shelter 
for lost girls, abused wives, friendless children and weak 
or wicked men. Father and mother had no money to give, 
but gave their time, sympathy, help, and if blessings would 
make them rich they would be millionaires. This is practical 
Christianity." 

At that time they were living in a small house, with Beth 
as housekeeper, while Anna and Louisa taught. May went to 
school, and the mother attended to her own work. Mr. 
Alcott, too, was doing all he could to add to the family in- 
come by his lectures, and by writing articles on his favorite 
subjects, so all together, they managed to live in some sort of 
fashion. But Louisa had now made up her mind that she 
must do more for the comfort of the beloved mother, who 
was always overworked and worried, despite her courage 
and cheery manner, and she decided to try to publish a story. 

Full of the intention, one night, she sat down on the floor 
and searched through the pile of papers which included most 

224 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

of her "scribblings" since her first use of a pen. Plays, 
poems and many other closely written sheets were thrown 
aside. At last she found what she was looking for, and read 
and re-read it three times, then set it aside until morning, 
when, with the greatest possible secrecy, she put it in an 
envelope, sealed, addressed and mailed it. From that time 
she went about her work with the air of one whose mind is 
on greater things, but she was always wide awake enough 
when it came time for some one to go for the mail, 
and her sisters joked her about her eagerness for letters, 
which she bore good-naturedly enough. Then came a 
wonderful day when she was handed a letter from a well- 
known firm of pubhshers. Her hand shook as she opened 
it, and she gave a suppressed cry of joy as she read the 
short note, and looked with amazement at the bit of paper 
enclosed. ' 

Later in the day, when the housework was done and school 
was over, she sauntered into the room where the family was 
gathered in a sewing-bee. Throwing herself into a chair 
with an indifferent air, she asked: 

"Want to hear a good story?" 

Of course they did. The Alcotts were always ready for a 
story, and Louisa read extremely well. Her audience Hs- 
tened to the thriUing tale with eager attention, and at the 
end there was a chorus of cries: "How fine! How lovely! 
How interesting!" Then Anna asked: "Who wrote it?" 
With shining eyes and crimson cheeks Louisa jumped to 
her feet and, waving the paper overhead, cried: 

" Your sisterl I wrote it! Yes, I really did!" 

One can imagine the great excitement of the group who 
then clustered around the authoress and asked questions 
all at once. 

That first pubhshed story was pronounced by its creator 
to be "great rubbish," and she only received the sum of five 

225 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

dollars for it, but it was a beginning, and from that time in 
her active brain plots for stories long and short began to 
simmer, although she still taught, and often did sewing in 
the evenings, for which she was fairly well paid. 

In mid-winter of 1853 Mr. Alcott went West on a lecture 
tour, full of hope for a financial success. He left the home 
group as busy as usual, for Mrs„ Alcott had several boarders, 
as well as her employment office. Anna had gone to Syracuse 
to teach in a school there, Louisa had opened a home school 
with ten pupils, and the calm philosopher felt that he could 
leave them with a quiet mind, as they were all earning 
money, and this was his opportunity to broaden the field in 
which the seeds of unique ideas were sown. 

So off he went, full of eager courage, followed by the good 
wishes of the girls, who fondly hoped that "father would be 
appreciated at last." Alas for hopes! On a February 
night, when all the household were sleeping soundly, the bell 
rang violently. All were awakened, and Louisa says, 
"Mother flew down, crying 'my husband!' We rushed 
after, and five white figures embraced the half-frozen wan- 
derer who came in tired, hungry, cold and disappointed, but 
smiling bravely, and as serene as ever. We fed and warmed 
and brooded over him," says Louisa, " longing to ask if he had 
made any money, but none did till little May said, after he 
had told all the pleasant things: 'Well, did people pay 
you?' Then, with a queer look, he opened his pocket- 
book and showed one dollar, saying with a smile that made 
our eyes fill: 'Only that! My overcoat was stolen, and I 
had to buy a shawl. Many promises were not kept, and 
traveling is costly, but I have opened the way, and another 
year shall do better.* 

"I shall never forget," adds Louisa, "how beautifully 
mother answered him, though the dear hopeful soul had built 
much on his success; but with a beaming face she kissed 

226 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

him, saying, *I call that doing very well. Since you are 
safely home, dear, we don't ask anything more.' 

"Anna and I choked down our tears, and took a lesson 
in real love which we never forgot. ... It was half tragic 
and comic, for father was very dirty and sleepy, and mother 
in a big night-cap and funny old jacket." 

Surely no one ever had a better opportunity to probe to 
the heart of the real emotions that make up the most prosaic 
as well as the most heroic daily hves than a member of that 
generous, happy, loving Alcott family. 

And still Louisa kept on doing other things besides the 
writing, which was such a safety valve for her intense nature. 
For a short time she worked for a relative in the country, 
and she also taught and sewed and did housework, and 
made herself useful wherever her strong hands and wiHing 
heart could find some way of earning a dollar. 

The seven years spent in Boston had developed her into a 
capable young woman of twenty-two, who was ready and 
eager to play her part in the great drama of Hfe of which 
she was an interested spectator as she saw it constantly 
enacted around her. 

Even then, before she had stepped across the threshold of 
her career, she unconsciously realized that the home stage 
is the real background of the supreme world drama, and she 
shows this by the intimate, tender domestic scenes which 
made all of her stories bits of real life, with a strong appeal 
to those whose homes are joyous parts of the present, or 
sacred memories. 

When she was determined to achieve an end, Louisa 
Alcott generally succeeded, even in the face of obstacles; 
and now having decided to take on her own broad shoulders 
some of the burdens which were weighing heavily on her 
beloved mother, she turned to the talent which had recently 
yielded her the magnificent sum of five dollars. In the days 

l6 227 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

at Concord she had told many stories about fairies and 
flowers to the httle Emerson children and their friends, who 
eagerly drank in all the mystic tales in which wood-nymphs, 
water sprites, giants and fairy queens played a prominent 
part, and the stories were thrilHng, because their teller be- 
lieved absolutely in the fairy creatures she pictured in a 
lovely setting of woodland glades and forest dells. These 
stories, which she had written down and called "Flower 
Fables," she found among her papers, and as she read them 
again she felt that they might interest other children as 
they had those to whom they were told. She had no money 
to pubhsh them, however, and no publisher would bear the 
expense of a venture by an untried writer. But it took 
more than that to daunt Louisa when her mind was made up. 
With great enthusiasm she told a friend of the family, 
Miss Wealthy Stevens, of her desire, and she generously 
offered to pay for publication, but it was decided not to tell 
the family until the book should come out. Then in radiant 
secrecy Louisa burned the midnight oil and prepared the 
little book for the press. One can fancy the proud surprise 
of Mrs. Alcott when, on the following Christmas morning, 
among her pile of gifts she found the little volume with 

this note: 

December 25, 1854. 
Dear Mother: 

Into your Christmas stocking I have put my first-born, knowing that 
you will accept it with all its faults (for grandmothers are always kind) 
and look upon it merely as an earnest of what I may yet do; for with so 
much to cheer me on, I hope to pass in time from fairies and fables to men 
and realities. Whatever beauty or poetry is to be found in my little book 
is owing to your interest in, and encouragement of, my efforts from the 
first to the last, and if ever I do anything to be proud of, my greatest hap- 
piness will be that I can thank you for that, as I may do for all the good 
there is in me, and I shall be content to write if it gives you pleasure. 

Jo is fussing about, 

My lamp is going out. 
228 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

To dear mother, with many kind wishes for a Happy New Year and 
Merry Christmas, 

I am ever your loving daughter, 

LouY. 

Recompense enough, that note, for all a loving mother's 
sacrifices and attempts to give her daughter understanding 
sympathy and love — and it is small wonder if that Christmas 
gift always remained one of her most precious possessions. 

Six hundred copies of the little "Flower Fables" were 
published, and the book sold very well, although their 
author only received the sum of ^32 for them, which was 
in sharp contrast, she says in her journal, "to the receipts 
of six months only in 1886, being eight thousand dollars for 
the sale of books and no new one; but" she adds, "I was 
prouder over the thirty-two dollars than the eight thousand." 

Louisa Alcott was now headed toward her destiny, al- 
though she was still a long way from the shining goal of 
literary success, and had many weary hills yet to climb. 

As soon as Flower Fables was published, she began to plan 
for a new volume of fairy tales, and as she was invited to 
spend the next summer in the lovely New Hampshire village 
of Walpole, she thankfully accepted the invitation, and 
decided to write the new book there in the bracing air of the 
hill town. In Walpole, she met delightful people, who were 
all attracted to the versatile, amusing young woman, and 
she was in great demand when there was any entertainment 
on foot. One evening she gave a burlesque lecture on 
"Woman, and Her Position, by Oronthy Bluggage," which 
created such a gale of merriment that she was asked to repeat 
it for money, which she did; and so there was added to her 
store of accomplishments another, from which she was to 
reap some rewards in coming years. 

Her enjoyment of Walpole was so great that her family 
decided to try its fine air, as they were tired of city life and 

229 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

needed a change of scene. A friend offered them a house 
there, rent free, and in their usual impromptu way they left 
Boston and arrived in the country village, bag and baggage. 
Mr. Alcott was overjoyed to have a garden in which to 
work, and Mrs, Alcott was glad to be near her niece, whose 
guest Louisa had been up to that time. 

Louisa's comment on their arrival in her diary was: 

"Busy and happy times as we settle in the Httle house in 
the lane, near by my dear ravine — plays, picnics, pleasant 
people and good neighbors." Despite the good times, it is 
evident that she was not idle, for she says, "Finished fairy 
book in September. . . . Better than Flower Fables. Now, 
I must try to sell it." 

In September Anna had an offer to become a teacher in the 
great idiot asylum in Syracuse. Her sensitive nature 
shrank from the work, but with real self-sacrifice she ac- 
cepted it for the sake of the family, and went off in October. 
Meanwhile Louisa had been thinking deeply about her 
future, and her diary tells the story of a decision she made, 
quite the most important one of her life. She writes : 

"November; decided to seek my fortune, so with my 
little trunk of home-made clothes, ^40 earned by stories sent 
to the Gazette^ and my MSS., I set forth with mother's bless- 
ing one rainy day in the dullest month in the year." 

She went straight to Boston, where she writes: 

"Found it too late to do anything with the book (the new 
one she had written at Walpole) so put it away and tried for 
teaching, sewing, or any honest work. Won't go home to sit 
idle while I have a head and a pair of hands." 

Good for you, Louisa — you are the stuff that success is 
made of! That her courage had its reward is shown by the fact 
that her cousins, the Sewalls, generously offered her a home 
for the winter with them which she gratefully accepted, but 
insisted on paying for her board by doing a great deal of 

230 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

sewing for them. She says in her diary: "I sew for MoUie 
and others and write stories. C. gave me books to notice. 
Heard Thackeray. Anxious times; Anna very home-sick. 
Walpole very cold and dull, now the summer butterflies have 
gone. Got $$ for a tale and $12 for sewing; sent home a 
Christmas box to cheer the dear souls in the snow-banks." 

In January she writes: **C. paid $6 for J Sister's Trialy 
gave me more books to notice, and wants more tales." 
The entries that follow give a vivid picture of her pluck 
and perseverance in that first winter of fortune-seeking, 
and no record of deeds could be more graphic than the fol- 
lowing entries : 

"Sewed for L. W. Sewall and others. Mr. Field took my 
farce to Mobile to bring out; Mr. Barry of the Boston 
Theater has the play. Heard Curtis lecture. Began a 
book for summer. Beach Bubbles. Mr. F. of the Courier 
printed a poem of mine on 'Little Nell'. Got ^10 for 
'Bertha' and saw great yellow placards stuck up announcing 
it. Acted at the W's. March; got ^10 for 'Genevieve'. 
Prices go up as people like the tales and ask who wrote 
them. . . . Sewed a great deal, and got very tired; one job 
for Mr. G. of a dozen pillow-cases, one dozen sheets, six fine 
cambric neck-ties, and two dozen handkerchiefs, at which I 
had to work all one night to get them done, ... I got only 
$4.00." The brave, young fortune-seeker adds sensibly, 
*' Sewing won't make my fortune, but I can plan my stories 
while I work." 

In May she had a welcome visit from Anna on her way 
home from Syracuse, as the work there was too hard for her, 
and the sisters spent some happy days together in Boston. 
Then they were obliged to go home, as dear little Beth was 
very sick with scarlet-fever which she caught from some 
poor children Mrs. Alcott had been nursing. Both Beth 
and May had the dangerous disease, and Beth never recov- 

231 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

ered from the effects of it, although she Hved for two years, a 
serene, patient invaUd, who shed a benediction on the sor- 
rowing household. That summer was an anxious time for 
the family. In her usual way Louisa plunged head-long 
into housework and nursing, and when night came she would 
scribble one of the stories which the papers were now glad 
to accept whenever she could send them. So with varying 
degrees of apprehension and rejoicing, the weary months 
passed, and as Beth was slowly improving and she was not 
needed at home, Louisa decided to spend another winter in 
the city. Her diary says: 

"There I can support myself and help the family. C. 
offers $io a month and perhaps more. . . . Others have 
plenty of sewing; the play may come out, and Mrs. R. 
will give me a sky-parlor for ^3 a week, with fire and 
board. I sew for her also." With practical forethought, 
she adds, "If I can get A. L. to governess I shall be all 
right." 

Then in a burst of the real spirit which had animated her 
ever since she first began to write and sew and teach and 
act, and make over old clothes given her by rich friends 
that she need not spend any money on herself, she declares 
in her diary: 

"I was born with a boy's spirit under my bib and tucker. 
I cant wait when I can zvork; so I took my little talent in my 
hand and forced the world again, braver than before, and 
wiser for my failures." 

That the decision was no light one, and that the winter in 
Boston was not merely an adventure, is shown by her declara- 
tion: 

"I don't often pray in words; but when I set out that day 
with all my worldly goods in the little old trunk, my own 
earnings (^25) in my pocket, and much hope and resolution 
in my soul, my heart was very full, and I said to the Lord, 

232 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

*HeIp us all, and keep us for one another,' as I never said it 
before, while I looked back at the dear faces watching me, 
so full of love, and hope, and faith." 

Louisa Alcott's childhood and girlhood, with all the 
hardships and joys which went into the passing years, had 
been merged in a triumphant young womanhood — a fitting 
preface to the years of fame and fortune which were to 
follow. A brave, interesting girl had become a courageous 
older woman, who faced the untried future with her small 
earnings in her pocket, her worldly goods in her trunk, and 
hopeful determination in her heart to do some worth-while 
thing in the world, for the sake of those she dearly loved. 
She had started up the steep slope of her life's real adven- 
turing, and despite the rough paths over which she must 
still travel before reaching her goal, she was more and more a 
sympathetic comrade to the weak or weary, ever a gallant 
soldier, and a noble woman, born to do great deeds. So 
enthusiastic was she in playing her part in the world's work, 
that when she was twenty-seven years old, and still toiling 
on, with a scant measure of either wealth or fame, she 
exclaimed at a small success: 

"Hurrah! My story was accepted and Lowell asked if it 
was not a translation from the German, it was so unlike 
other tales. I felt much set up, and my fifty dollars will be 
very happy money. ... I have not been pegging away all 
these years in vain, and I may yet have books and publish- 
ers, and a fortune of my own. Success has gone to my head, 
and I wander a little. 

"Twenty-seven years old and very happy!" 

The prediction of "books, publishers and a fortune" came 
true in 1868, when a Boston firm urged her to write a story 
for girls, and she had the idea of describing the early life of 
her own home, with its many episodes and incidents. She 

233 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

wrote the book and called it Little Women, and was the most 
surprised person in the world, when from her cozy corner of 
Concord she watched edition after edition being published, 
and found that she had become famous. From that mo- 
ment Louisa Alcott belonged to the public, and one has but 
to turn to the pages of her ably edited Life, Letters and 
Journals, to realize the source from which she got the mate- 
rial for her "simple story of simple girls," bound by a beau- 
tiful tie of family love, that neither poverty, sorrow nor 
death could sever. Four little pilgrims, struggling onward 
and upward through all the difficulties that beset them on 
their way, in Concord, Boston, Walpole and elsewhere, had 
provided human documents which the genius of Louisa 
Alcott made into an imperishable story for the delight and 
inspiration of succeeding generations of girls. 

Little Women was followed by Little Men, Old Fashioned 
Girl, Eight Cousins, Rose in Bloom, Under the Lilacs, and a 
long line of other charming books for young people. And, 
although the incidents in them were not all taken from real 
life as were those of her first "immortal," yet was each and 
every book a faithful picture of every-day life. That is 
where the genius of Louisa Alcott came in. From the 
depicting of fairies and gnomes, princes and kings, she early 
turned to paint the real, the vital and the heroic, which is 
being lived in so many households where there is little 
money and no luxury, but much light-hearted laughter, 
tender affection for one another, and a deep and abiding 
love of humanity. 

Well may all aspiring young Americans take example 
from the author of Little Women, and when longing to set 
the world on fire in the expression of their genius, learn not 
to despise or to turn away from the simple, commonplace 
details of every-day life. 

And for successful life and work, there is no better inspira- 
234 



LOUISA M. ALCOTT 

tion than the three rules given Louisa Alcott in girlhood for 
her daily guidance: 

Rule yourself; 

Love your neighbor; 

Do the duty which lies nearest you. 



CLARA MORRIS: THE GIRL WHO WON FAME 
AS AN ACTRESS 

A CERTAIN young person who lived in a boarding-house 
^ in the city of Cleveland, Ohio, was approaching her 
thirteenth birthday, which fact made her feel very old, and 
also very anxious to do some kind of work, as she saw her 
mother busily engaged from morning to night, in an effort 
to earn a Hving for her young daughter and herself. 

Spring came in that year with furious heat, and the young 
person, seeing her mother cruelly over-worked, felt hope- 
lessly big and helpless. The humihation of having some 
one working to support her — and with the dignity of thirteen 
years close upon her, was more than she could bear. Lock- 
ing herself into her small room, she flung herself on her knees 
and with a passion of tears prayed that God would help her. 

"Dear God," she cried, "just pity me and show me what 
to do. Please!" Her entreaty was that of the child who 
has perfect confidence in the Father to whom she is speaking. 
"Help me to help my mother. If you will, I'll never say 'No!* 
to any woman who comes to me all my life long!" 

In her story of her life, which the young person wrote 
many years later, she says, in telhng of that agonized plea: 
"My error in trying to barter with my Maker must have been 
forgiven, for my prayer was answered within a week. . . . 
I have tried faithfully to keep my part of the bargain, for 
no woman who has ever sought my aid has ever been an- 
swered with a 'No!'" 

Somewhat relieved at having made known her longing 
236 



CLARA MORRIS 

to Some One whom she beheved would understand and surely 
help, the young person went through the dreary routine of 
boarding-house days more cheerfully, to her mother's joy. 
And at night, when she lay tossing and trying to sleep 
despite the scorching heat, she seemed to be reviewing the 
thirteen years of her existence as if she were getting ready 
to pigeon-hole 'the past, to make ready for a fuller future. 

With clear distinctness she remembered having been told 
by her mother, in the manner of old-fashioned tellers, that, 
"Once upon a time, in the Canadian city of Toronto, in the 
year 1849, on the 17th of March — the day of celebrating the 
birth of good old St. Patrick, in a quiet house not far from 
the sound of the marching paraders, the rioting of revelers 
and the blare of brass bands, a young person was born," 
Memory carried on the story, as she lay there in the dark, 
still hours of the night, and she repeated to herself the oft- 
told tale of those few months she and her mother spent in 
the Canadian city before they journeyed back to the United 
States, where in Cleveland the mother tried many different 
kinds of occupations by which to support the child and her- 
self. It was a strange Hfe the young person remembered in 
those early days. She and her mother had to flit so often — 
suddenly, noiselessly. Often she remembered being roused 
from a sound sleep, sometimes being simply wrapped up 
without being dressed, and carried through the dark to 
some other place of refuge. Then, too, when other children 
walked in the streets or played, bare-headed or only with hat 
on, she wore a tormenting and heavy veil over her face. 
At an early age she began to notice that if a strange lady 
spoke to her the mother seemed pleased, but if a man noticed 
her she looked frightened, and hurried her away as fast as 
possible. At first this was all a mystery to the child, but 
later she understood that the great fear in her mother's 
eyes, and the hasty flights, were all to be traced to a father 

237 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

who had not been good to the brave mother, and so she had 
taken her little girl and fled from him. But he always found 
her and begged for the child. Only too well the young per- 
son remembered some of those scenes of frantic appeal on the 
father's side, of angry refusal by her mother, followed always 
by another hasty retreat to some new place of concealment. 
At last — never-to-be forgotten day — there was a vivid recol- 
lection of the time when the father asserted brutally that 
"he would make life a misery to her until she gave up the 
child" — that "by fair means or foul he would gain his end." 
Soon afterward he did kidnap the young person, but the 
mother was too quick for him, and almost immediately her 
child was in her own arms again. 

This necessary habit of concealment, and also the mother's 
need to earn her own living, made life anything but an easy 
matter for them both. The mother's terror lest her child be 
taken from her again made her fear to allow the little girl 
to walk out alone, even for a short distance, and in such 
positions as the older woman was able to secure, it was al- 
ways with the promise that the child should be no nuisance. 
And so the young person grew up in a habit of self-efface- 
ment, and of sitting quietly in corners where she could not 
be seen or heard, instead of playing with other children of 
her own age. Then came a great hope, which even as she 
lay in bed and thought about it, brought the tears to her 
eyes, she had so longed to have it come true. 

When she was six years old, she and her mother had been 
living in a boarding-house in Cleveland, where there was a 
good-natured actress boarding, who took such a fancy to 
the shy Httle girl who was always sitting in a corner reading a 
book, that one day she approached the astonished mother 
with a proposition to adopt her daughter. Seeing surprise 
on the mother's face, she frankly told of her position, her in- 
come and her intention to give the girl a fine education. She 

238 



1 



CLARA MORRIS 

thought a convent school would be desirable, from then, say, 
until the young person was seventeen. 

The mother was really tempted by the offer of a good 
education, which she saw no way to give her daughter, and 
might have accepted it if the actress had not added: 

"When she reaches the age of seventeen, I will place her 
on the stage." 

That ended the matter. The mother was horror-stricken, 
and could hardly make her refusal clear and decided enough. 
Even when her employer tried to make her see that by her 
refusal she might be doing her daughter a great injustice, she 
said, sharply: "It would be better for her to starve trying to 
lead an honorable life, than to be exposed to such publicity 
and such awful temptations." And thus, in ignorance of 
what the future had in store for her child, did she close the 
door on a golden opportunity for developing her greatest 
talent, and the young person's first dream of freedom and a 
fascinating career had come to grief. As she reviewed her 
disappointment and the dreary days that followed, a flood 
of self-pity welled up in the girl's heart, and she felt as if 
she must do something desperate to quiet her restless nature. 

Fortunately the disappointmxent was followed by a wel- 
come change of scene, for mother and daughter left Cleveland 
and went to try their fortunes in what was then "the far 
west." After a long trip by rail and a thirty-mile drive 
across the prairie, they arrived at their journey's end, and 
the marvelous quiet of the early May night in the country 
soothed the older woman's sore heart and filled the child with 
the joy of a real adventure. 

They remained in that beautiful world beyond the prairie 
for two years, and never did the charm of the backwoods's 
life pall on the growing girl, who did not miss the city sights 
and sounds, but exulted in the new experiences as, "with the 
other children on the farm, she dropped corn in the sun- 

239 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

warmed furrows, while a man followed behind with a hoe 
covering it up; and when it had sprouted and was a tempting 
morsel for certain black robbers of the field, she made a very 
active and energetic young scarecrow." 

While the out-of-door life was a fine thing for the young 
person, still more to her advantage was it that she was now 
thrown with other children, who were happy, hearty, rol- 
licking youngsters, and, seeing that the stranger was new to 
farm-life, had rare fun at her expense. For instance, as she 
later told: 

"They led me forth to a pasture, shortly after our arrival 
at the farm, and, catching a horse, they hoisted me up on to 
its bare, slippery back. I have learned a good bit about 
horses since then," she says, "have hired, borrowed and 
bought them, but never since have I seen a horse of such 
appalHng aspect. His eyes were the size of soup-plates, 
large clouds of smoke came from his nostrils. He had a 
glass-enamelled surface, and if he was half as tall as he felt, 
some museum manager missed a fortune. Then the young 
fiends, leaving me on my slippery perch, high up near the sky, 
drew afar off and stood against the fence, and gave me plenty 
of room to fall off. But when I suddenly felt the world 
heave up beneath me, I uttered a wild shriek — clenched my 
hands in the animal's black hair and, madly flinging pro- 
priety to any point of the compass that happened to be 
behind me, I cast one pantalette over the enameled back, 
and thus astride safely crossed the pasture — and lo, it was 
not I who fell, but their faces instead ! When they came to 
take me down somehow the animal seemed shrunken, and I 
hesitated about leaving it, whereupon the biggest boy said I 
had 'pluck.' I had been frightened nearly to death, but 
I always could be silent at the proper moment; I was silent 
then, and he would teach me to ride sideways, for my mother 
would surely punish me if I sat astride like that. In a few 

240 



CLARA MORRIS 

weeks, thanks to him, I was the one who was oftenest trusted 
to take the horses to water at noon, riding sideways and al- 
ways bare-back, mounted on one horse and leading a second 
to the creek, until all had had their drink. Which habit 
of riding — from balance — " the young person adds, "has 
made me quite independent of stirrups since those far-away 
days." 

Besides the riding, there were many other delightful pas- 
times which were a part of life on the farm, and on rainy 
days, when the children could not play out of doors, they 
would flock to the big barn, and hsten eagerly to stories told 
by the city girl, who had read them in books. Two precious 
years passed all too swiftly on the farm., and the young per- 
son was fast shooting up into a tall, slender girl, who had 
learned a love of nature in all its forms, which never left her. 
She had also grown stronger, which satisfied her mother 
that the experiment had been successful. But now there 
was education to be thought of, and when news came of 
the death of that father, who had been the haunting 
specter of the mother's life, they went back at once to Cleve- 
land, where the mother obtained employment, and the 
growing daughter was sent to a public school. But at best it 
gave a meager course of study to one who had always been a 
reader of every book on which she could lay her hands. 
To make the dreary, daily routine less tiresome, she supple- 
mented it by a series of "thinks". These usually took 
place at night after her candle had been blown out, and the 
young person generally fell asleep in a white robe and a crown 
of flowers, before she had gathered up all the prizes and 
diplomas and things she had earned in the world of reverie, 
where her dream self had been roving. 

And now came the approach of her thirteenth birthday, 
and her plea that she might be made more useful in the 
world. And then, came this: 

241 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

In the boarding-house where she and her mother were 
living, the mother acting as assistant to the manager, the 
young person occupied with enduring her monotonous exist- 
ence and with watching the boarders, there were two ac- 
tresses, a mother and daughter. The daughter, whose name 
was Blanche, was only a year or two older than the young 
person whose eyes followed her so eagerly, because Blanche 
was one of those marvelous creatures whose real life was 
lived behind the foot-lights. 

Something in the silent, keen-eyed girl who was so near 
her own age attracted Blanche, and the two became good 
friends, spending many an hour together when the young 
person was not in school. In exchange for her thrilling 
stories of stage life, Blanche's new friend would tell vivid 
tales which she had read in books, to all of which good- 
natured Blanche would listen with lazy interest, and at the 
finish of the narrative often exclaimed: 

**You ought to be in a theater. You could act!" 

Although this assertion was always met by determined 
silence, as her friend thought she was being made fun of, yet 
the young person did not fail to brood over the statement 
when she was alone. Could there be any truth in the 
statement, she wondered .f* Then came a marvelous event. 
Blanche hurried home from the theater one day to tell her 
young friend that extra ballet girls were wanted in their 
company. She must go at once and get engaged. 

"But," gasped the young person, "maybe they won't take 
me!" 

"Well, answered Blanche, "I've coaxed your mother, and 
my mother says she'll look out for you — so at any rate, go 
and see. I'll take you to-morrow." 

To-morrow! "Dimly the agitated and awed young per- 
son seemed to see a way opening out before her, and again 
behind her locked door she knelt down and said 'Dear God! 

242 



CLARA MORRIS 

Dear God!' and got no further, because grief has so many 
words, and joy has so few." 

That was Friday, and the school term had closed that day. 
The next morning, with a heart beating almost to suffoca- 
tion, the young person found herself on the way to the 
theater, with self-possessed Blanche, who led the way to the 
old Academy of Music. Entering the building, the girls 
went up-stairs, and as they reached the top step Blanche 
called to a small, dark man who was hurrying across the hall: 

"Oh, Mr. Ellsler — wait a moment, please — I want to 
speak to you." 

The man stopped, but with an impatient frown, for as he 
himself afterward said in relating the story: 

"I was much put out about a business matter, and was 
hastily crossing the corridor when Blanche called me, and I 
saw she had another girl in tow, a girl whose appearance in a 
theater was so droll I must have laughed had I not been 
more than a Httle cross. Her dress was quite short — she 
wore a pale-blue apron buttoned up the back, long braids 
tied at the ends with ribbons, and a brown straw hat, while 
she clutched desperately at the handle of the biggest um- 
brella I ever saw. Her eyes were distinctly blue and big 
with fright. Blanche gave her name, and said she wanted 
to go in the ballet. I instantly answered that she was too 
small — I wanted women, not children. Blanche was voluble, 
but the girl herself never spoke a single word. I glanced 
toward her and stopped. The hands that clutched the um- 
brella trembled — she raised her eyes and looked at me. I 
had noticed their blueness a moment before, now they were 
almost black, so swiftly had their pupils dilated, and slowly 
the tears rose in them. All the father in me shrank under 
the child's bitter disappointment; all the actor in me thrilled 
at the power of expression in the girl's face, and I hastily 
added: 

17 243 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

"Oh, well, you may come back in a day or two, and if 
any one appears meantime who is short enough to march with 
you, I'll take you on." Not until I had reached my office 
did I remember that the girl had not spoken a single word, 
but had won an engagement — for I knew I should engage her 
— with a pair of tear-filled eyes." 

As a result of his half-promise, three days later, the young 
person again presented herself at the theater, and was en- 
gaged for the term of two weeks to go on the stage in the 
marches and dances of a play called "The Seven Sisters," 
for which she was to receive the large sum of fifty cents a 
night. She, who was later to be known as one of the great 
emotional actresses of her day, whose name was to be on 
every lip where the finest in dramatic art was appreciated, 
had begun to mount the ladder toward fame and fortune. 

Very curiously and cautiously she picked her way around 
the stage at first, looking at the scenes, so fine on one side, 
so bare and cheap on the other; at the tarletan "glass win- 
dows," at the green calico sea lying flat and waveless on the 
floor. At last she asked Blanche: 

"Is everything only make-believe in a theater.?" 

And Blanche, with the indifference of her lackadaisical 
nature answered, "Yes, everything's make-beheve, except 
salary day." 

Then came the novice's first rehearsal, which included a 
Zouave drill to learn, as well as a couple of dances. She went 
through her part with keen relish and learned the drill so 
quickly that on the second day she sat watching the others, 
while they struggled to learn the movements. As she sat 
watching the star came along and angrily demanded, 
"Why are you not drilling with the rest.'"' 

"The gentleman sent me out of the ranks, sir," she an- 
swered, "because he said I knew the manual and the drill." 

The star refused to believe this and, catching up a rifle, he 
244 



CLARA MORRIS 

cried: "Here, take hold, and let's see how much you know. 
Now, then, shoulder arms!" 

Standing alone, burning with blushes, blinded with tears 
of mortification, she was put through her paces, but she 
really did know the drill, and it was no small reward for her 
misery when her persecutor took the rifle from her and 
exclaimed: 

"Well, saucer-eyes, you do know it! I'm sorry, little girlj 
I spoke so roughly to you!" Holding out his hand to her, he 
added, "You ought to stay in this business — you've got your 
head with you!" 

Stay in it! The question was would the manager want 
her when the fatal night of her first stage appearance had 
come and gone! 

In those days of rehearsals, costumes were one of her most 
vital interests; for a ballet girl's dress is most important, as 
there is so little of it, that it must be perfect of its kind. The 
ballet of which the young person was now a member were 
supposed to be fairies in one dance. For the second act they 
wore dancing-skirts, and for the Zouave drill, they wore the 
regular Fire Zouave uniform. 

At last, the first performance of the play came. It was a 
very hot night, and so crowded was the tiny dressing-room 
occupied by the ballet corps, that some of the girls had to 
stand on the one chair while they put their skirts on. The 
confusion was great, and the new-comer dressed as quickly 
as possible, escaped down-stairs, and showed herself to 
Blanche and her mother, to see if her make-up was all right. 

To her surprise, after a moment of tense silence they both 
burst into loud laughter, their eyes staring into her face. In 
telling of that night later, she said; "I knew you had to put 
on powder, because the gas made you yellow, and red because 
the powder made you ghastly, but it had not occurred to me 
that skill was required in applying the same, and I was a 

245 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

sight to make any kindly disposed angel weep! I had not 
even sense enough to free my eyelashes from the powder 
clinging to them. My face was chalk white, and low down 
on my cheeks were nice round, bright red spots. 

"Mrs. Bradshaw said: 'With your round blue eyes and 
your round white and red face, you look like a cheap china 
doll. Come here, my dear!' 

"She dusted off a few thicknesses of the powder, removed 
the hard red spots, and while she worked she remarked; 
* To-morrow, after you have walked to get a color, go to your 
glass and see where the color shows itself. ... Of course, 
when you are making up for a character part you go by a 
different rule, but when you are just trying to look pretty, 
be guided by Nature.' As she talked, I felt the soft touch 
of a hare's foot on my burning cheeks and she continued her 
work until my face was as it should be to make the proper 
effect. 

"That lesson was the beginning and the ending of my 
theatrical instruction. What I learned later was learned by 
observation, study, and direct inquiry — but never by in- 
struction, either free or paid for." 

And now the moment of stage entry had arrived. "One 
act of the play represented the back of a stage during a per- 
formance. The scenes were turned around with their un- 
painted sides to the audience. The scene-shifters and gas- 
men were standing about; everything was supposed to be 
going up. The manager was giving orders wildly, and then a 
dancer was late. She was called frantically, and finally, 
when she appeared on the run, the manager caught her by 
the shoulders, rushed her across the stage, and fairly pitched 
her onto the imaginary stage, to the great amusement of the 
audience. The tallest and prettiest girl in the ballet had 
been picked out to do this bit of work, and she had been re- 
hearsed day after day with the greatest care for the small part. 

246 



CLARA MORRIS 

"All were gathered together ready for their first entrance 
and dance, which followed a few moments after the scene 
already described. The tall girl had a queer look on her 
face as she stood in her place; her cue came, but she never 
moved. 

"I heard the rushing footsteps of the stage-manager; 
'That's you,' he shouted; 'Goon! Goon! Run! Run!' 
Run? She seemed to have grown fast to the floor. . . . 

"'Are you going on?' cried the frantic prompter. 

She dropped her arms limply at her sides and whispered; 
'"I— I— c~a-n't.' 

"He turned, and as he ran his imploring eye over the line of 
faces, each girl shrank back from it. He reached me. I had 
no fear, and he saw it. 

" 'Can you go on there?' he cried. I nodded. 

" 'Then for God's sake go — go!' 

" 'I gave a bound and aiush that carried me half across the 
stage before the manager caught me, and so, I made my 
first entrance on the stage, and danced and marched and 
sang with the rest, and all unconsciously took my first 
sted on the path that I was to follow through shadow 
and through sunshine — to follow by steep and stony places, 
over threatening bogs, through green and pleasant meadows 
— to follow steadily and faithfully for many and many a 
year to come." 

To the surprise of every one, when salary day came around 
the new ballet girl did not go to claim her week's pay. Even 
on the second she was the last one to appear at the box- 
office window. Mr. Ellsler himself was there, and he opened 
the door and asked her to come in. As she signed her name, 
she paused so noticeably that he laughed, and said, "Don't 
you know your own name?" 

The fact was, on the first day of rehearsal, when the stage- 
manager had taken down all names, he called out to the 

247 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

latest comer, who was staring at the scenery and did not 
hear him: 

"Little girl, what is your name?" 

Some one standing near him volunteered: "Her name is 
Clara Morris, or Morrissey or Morrison, or something like 
that." At once he had written down Morris — dropping the 
last syllable from her rightful name. So when Mr. EUsler 
asked, "Don't you know your name?" it was the moment to 
have set the matter straight, but the young person was far 
too shy. She made no reply, but signed up and received 
two weeks' salary as Clara Morris, by which name she was 
known ever afterward. 

In her story of hfe on the stage, she says, "After having 
gratefully accepted my two weeks' earnings, Mr. Ellsler 
asked me why I had not come the week before. I told him I 
preferred to wait because it would seem so much more if I 
got both weeks' salary all at one time. He nodded gravely, 
and said, *It was rather a large sum to have in hand at one 
time,' and though I was very sensitive to ridicule, I did not 
suspect him of making fun of me. Then he said : 

"'You are a very intelligent Httle girl, and when you went 
on alone and unrehearsed the other night, you proved you 
had both adaptability and courage. I'd Hke to keep you in 
the theater. Will you come and be a regular member of the 
company for the season that begins in September next?' 

"I think it must have been my ears that stopped my 
ever-widening smile, while I made answer that I must ask 
my mother first. 

"*To be sure,' said he, 'to be sure!' Well, suppose you 
ask her then, and let me know whether you can or not.'" 

She says, "Looking back and speaking calmly, I must 
admit that I do not now believe Mr. Ellsler's financial future 
depended entirely upon the yes or no of my mother and my- 
self; but that I was on an errand of life or death every one 

24.8 



CLARA MORRIS 

must have thought who saw me tearing through the streets 
on that ninety-in-the-shade day. . . , One man ran out 
hatless and coatless and looked anxiously up the street in 
the direction from which I came. A big boy on the corner 
yelled after me: *Sa-ay, sis, where's the fire.'*' But, you see 
they did not know that I was carrying home my first real 
earnings, that I was clutching six damp one-dollar bills in 
the hands that had been so empty all my life! 

"I had meant to take off my hat and smooth my hair, and 
with a proper little speech approach my mother, and then 
hand her the money. But alas! as I rushed into the house I 
came upon her unexpectedly, for, fearing dinner was going 
to be late, she was hurrying things by shelling a great basket 
of peas as she sat by the dining-room window. At sight of 
her tired face all my nicely planned speech disappeared. 
I flung my arm about her neck, dropped the bills on top of 
the empty pods and cried: 

" *0h, mother, that's mine and it's all yours!' 

"'She kissed me, but to my grieved amazement put the 
money back into my hand and said, *No, you have earned 
this money yourself — you are to do with it exactly as you 
please.'" 

And that was why, the next morning, a much-excited and 
very rich young person took a journey to the stores, and as a 
result bought a lavender-flowered muslin dress which, when 
paid for, had made quite a large hole in the six dollars. By 
her expression and manner she plainly showed how proud 
and happy she was to be buying a dress for the mother who 
for thirteen years had been doing and buying for two. 
"Undoubtedly," says Miss Morris, "had there been a fire 
just then I would have risked my life to save that flowered 
muslin gown." 

Up to that time, the only world Clara Morris had known 
had been narrow and sordid, and lay chill under the shadow 

249 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

of poverty. . . . Now, standing humbly at the knee of 
Shakespeare, she began to learn something of another world 
— fairy-like in fascination, marvelous in reality. A world of 
sunny days and jeweled nights, of splendid palaces, caves, 
of horrors, forests of mystery, and meadows of smihng can- 
dor. All people, too, with such soldiers, statesmen, lovers, 
clowns, such women, of splendid honor, fierce ambition, 
thistle-down hghtness, as makes the heart beat fast to 
think of. 

That was the era of Shakesperian performances, and out 
of twenty-eight stars who played with the support of Mr. 
Ellsler's company, eighteen acted in the famous classic plays. 
All stars played a week's engagement, some two, so at least 
half of the season of forty-two weeks was given over to 
Shakespeare's plays, and every actor and actress had his 
lines at their tongues' tips, while there were endless discus- 
sions about the best rendering of famous passages. 

"I well remember," says Miss Morris, "my first step into 
theatrical controversy. 'Macbeth' was being rehearsed, 
and the star had just exclaimed: 'Hang out our banners on 
the outward walls!' That was enough — argument was on. 
It grew animated. Some were for: 'Hang out our banners! 
On the outward walls the cry is still, they come!' while one 
or two were with the star's reading. 

"I stood Hstening, and looking on, and fairly sizzling with 
hot desire to speak, but dared not take the liberty. Pres- 
ently an actor, noticing my eagerness, laughingly said: 

"'Well, what is it, Clara? You'll have a fit if you don't 
ease your mind with speech.' 

"'Oh, Uncle Dick,' I answered, my words fairly tripping 
over one another in my haste, 'I have a picture home, I cut 
out of a paper; it's a picture of a great castle with towers and 
moats and things, and on the outer walls are men with spears 
and shields, and they seem to be looking for the enemy, and, 

250 



CLARA MORRIS 

Uncle Dick, the banner is floating over the high tower! So, 
don't you think it ought to be read: "Hang out our banners! 
On the outward walls" — the outward wall, you know, is 
where the lookouts are standing — "the cry is still, they 
come!"* 

"A general laugh followed my excited explanation, but 
Uncle Dick patted me on the shoulder and said: 

"'Good girl, you stick to your picture — it's right, and so 
are you. Many people read that Hne that way, but you have 
worked it out for yourself, and that's a good plan to follow.' 

"And," says Miss Morris, "I swelled and swelled, it 
seemed to me, I was so proud of the gentle old man's approv- 
al. But that same night I came woefully to grief. I had 
been one of the crowd of 'witches.' Later, being off duty, I 
was, as usual, planted in the entrance, watching the acting 
of the grown-ups and grown-greats. Lady Macbeth was 
giving the sleep-walking scene, in a way that jarred upon my 
feelings. I could not have told why, but it did. I beheved 
myself alone, and when the memory-haunted woman roared 
out: 

"*Yet who would have thought the old man to have had 
so much hlood in him?' I remarked, under my breath. *Did 
you expect to find ink in him.?' 

"A sharp *ahem' right at my shoulder told me I had been 
overheard, and I turned to face — oh, horror! the stage- 
manager. He glared angrily at me and demanded my ideas 
on the speech, which in sheer desperation at last I gave, 
saying: 

"*I thought Lady Macbeth was amazed at the quantity of 
blood that flowed from the body of such an old man — for 
when you get old, you know, sir, you don't have so much 
blood as you used to, and I only thought that, as the "sleep- 
ing men were laced, and the knives smeared and her hands 
bathed with it," she might perhaps have whispered. "Yet 

251 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

who would have thought the old man to have so much blood 
in him?"' I didn't mean an impertinence. Down fell the 
tears, for I could not talk and hold them back at the same 
time. 

"He looked at me in dead silence for a few moments, then 
he said: * Humph!' and walked away, while I rushed to the 
dressing-room and cried and cried, and vowed that never, 
never again would I talk to myself — in the theater, at all 
events. 

"Only a short time afterward I had a proud moment when 
I was allowed to go on as the longest witch in the caldron 
scene in 'Macbeth.' Perhaps I might have come to grief 
over it had I not overheard the leading man say: 'That 
child will never speak those lines in the world!' And the 
leading man was six feet tall and handsome, and I was thir- 
teen and a half years old, and to be called a child! 

"I was in a secret rage, and I went over and over my lines 
at all hours, under all circumstances, so that nothing should 
be able to frighten me at night. And then, with my paste- 
board crown and white sheet and petticoat, I boiled up in 
the caldron and gave my lines well enough for the manager 
to say low: 

" * Good! Good!' and the leading man next night asked me 
to take care of his watch and chain during his combat 
scene, and," says Miss Morris, "my pride of bearing was 
unseemly, and the other girls loved me not at all, for, you 
see, they, too, knew he was six feet tall and handsome." 

The theatrical company of which Clara Morris had become 
a member was what was called by the profession, a "family 
theater," in which the best parts are apt to be absorbed by 
the manager and his family, while all the poor ones are 
placed with strict justice where they belong. At that time, 
outside of the star who was being supported, men and 
women were engaged each for a special line of business, to 

252 



CLARA MORRIS 

which "line" they were strictly kept. However much the 
"family theater" was disliked by her comrades in the pro- 
fession, it was indeed an ideal place for a young girl to begin 
her stage life in. The manager, Mr. Ellsler, was an excellent 
character actor; his wife, Mrs. Ellsler, was his leading 
woman — his daughter, Effie, though not out of school at that 
time, acted whenever there was a very good part that suited 
her. Other members of the company were mostly related 
in some way, and so it came about that there was not even 
the "pink flush of a flirtation over the first season," in fact, 
says Miss Morris, "during all the years I served in that old 
theater, no real scandal ever smirched it." She adds: "lean 
never be grateful enough for having come under the influence 
of the dear woman who watched over me that first season, 
Mrs. Bradshaw, the mother of Blanche, one of the most 
devoted actresses I ever saw, and a good woman besides. 
From her I learned that because one is an actress it is not 
necessary to be a slattern. She used to say: 

"You know at night the hour of morning rehearsal — then 
get up fifteen minutes earlier, and leave your room in order. 
Everything an actress does is commented on, and as she is 
more or less an object of suspicion, her conduct should be 
even more correct than that of other women." She also 
repeated again and again, "Study your lines — speak them 
just as they are written. Don't just gather the idea of a 
speech, and then use your own words — that's an infamous 
habit. The author knew what he wanted you to say. If he 
says, *My lord, the carriage waits,' don't you go on and say, 
*My lord, the carriage is waiting!'" 

These and many other pieces of valuable advice were 
stored up in Clara Morris's mind, and she made such good 
use of them that they bore rich fruit in later years. 

There was great consternation for mother and daughter, 
on a certain day when Clara brought home the startling 

253 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

news that the company was to be transferred to Columbus, 
Ohio, for the remainder of the season. It was a great event 
in the young actress's Hfe, as it meant leaving her mother 
and standing alone. But as she confesses: " I felt every now 
and then my grief and fright pierced through and through 
with a delicious thrill of importance; I was going to be just 
like a grown-up, and would decide for myself what I should 
wear. I might even, if I chose to become so reckless, wear 
my Sunday hat to a rehearsal, and when my cheap little 
trunk came, with C. M. on the end, showing it was my very 
own, I stooped down and hugged it." But she adds with 
honesty, "Later, when my mother, with a sad face, separated 
my garments from her own, I burst into sobs of utter for- 
lornness." 

The salary of the ballet corps was now raised to ^5 a week, 
and all set to work to try to solve the riddle of how a girl 
was to pay her board bill, her basket bill, her washing bill, 
and all the small expenses of the theater — powder, paint, 
soap, hair-pins, etc. — to say nothing of shoes and clothing, out 
of her earnings. Clara Morris and the Bradshaws solved the 
problem in the only possible way by rooming together in a 
large top-floor room, where they lived with a comparative 
degree of comfort, and with less loneliness for Clara than she 
could have felt elsewhere. 

During that first season she learned to manage her affairs 
and to take care of herself and her small belongings, 
without admonition from any one. At the same time 
she was learning much of the technique of the profession, 
and was deeply interested as she began to understand 
how illusions are produced. She declares that one of the 
proofs that she was meant to be an actress was her enjoy- 
ment of the mechanism of stage effects. 

"I was always on hand when a storm had to be worked," 
she says, "and would grind away with a will at a crank that, 

254 



CLARA MORRIS 

turning against a tight band of silk, made the sound of a tre- 
mendously shrieking wind. Add no one sitting in front of 
the house, looking at a white-robed woman ascending 
to heaven, apparently floating upward through the blue 
clouds, enjoyed the spectacle more than I enjoyed looking at 
the ascent from the rear, where I could see the tiny iron sup- 
port for her feet, the rod at her back with the belt holding 
her securely about the waist, and the men hoisting her 
through the air, with a painted, sometimes moving sky 
behind her. 

"This reminds me," says Miss Morris, *'that Mrs. Brad- 
shaw had several times to go to heaven (dramatically 
speaking), and as her figure and weight made the support 
useless, she always went to heaven on the entire gallery, as 
it is called, a long platform the whole width of the stage, 
which is raised and lowered by windlass. The enormous 
affair would be cleaned and hung about with nice white 
clouds, and then Mrs. Bradshaw, draped in long white robes, 
with hands meekly crossed upon her breast and eyes piously 
uplifted, would rise heavenward, slowly, as so heavy an 
angel should. But alas! There was one drawback to this 
otherwise perfect ascension. Never, so long as the theater 
stood, could that windlass be made to work silently. It al- 
ways moved up or down to a succession of screaks, unoilable, 
blood-curdling, that were intensified by Mrs. Bradshaw's 
weight, so that she ascended to the blue tarletan heaven 
accompanied by such chugs and long-drawn yowlings as 
suggested a trip to the infernal regions. Her face remained 
calm and unmoved, but now and then an agonized moan 
escaped her, lest even the orchestra's effort to cover up the 
support's protesting cries should prove useless. Poor 
woman, when she had been lowered again to terra fir ma and 
stepped off, the whole paint frame would give a kind of 
joyous upward spring. She noticed it, and one evening 

255 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

looked back and said; *0h, you're not one bit more glad 
than I am, you screaking wretch!'" 

Having successfully existed through the Columbus season, 
in the spring the company was again in Cleveland, playing 
for a few weeks before disbanding for that horror of all 
theatrical persons — the summer vacation. 

As her mother was in a position, and could not be with 
Clara, the young actress spent the sweltering months in a 
cheap boarding-house, where a kindly landlady was wilHng 
to let her board bill run over until the fall, when salaries 
should begin again. Clara never forgot that kindness, for 
she was in real need of rest after her first season of continuous 
work. Although her bright eyes, clear skin, and round face 
gave an impression of perfect health, yet she was far from 
strong, owing partly to the privations of her earlier life and 
to a slight injury to her back in babyhood. Because of this, 
she was facing a life of hard work handicapped by that most 
cruel of torments, a spinal trouble, which an endless number 
of different treatments failed to cure. 

Vacation ended, to her unspeakable joy she began work 
again as a member of the ballet corps, and during that season 
and the next her ability to play a part at short notice came 
to be such an accepted fact that more than once she was 
called on for work outside of her regular "Hne," to the envy 
of the other girls, who began to talk of "Clara's luck." 
"But," says Clara, "there was no luck about it. My small 
success can be explained in two words — extra work." 
While the others were content if they could repeat a part per- 
fectly to themselves in their rooms, that was only the begin- 
.ning of work to their more determined companion. "I 
would repeat those lines," said Miss Morris, "until, had the 
very roof blown off the theater at night, I should not have 
missed one." And so it was that the youngest member of 
the ballet corps came to be looked on as a general-utility 

256 



CLARA MORRIS 

person, who could be called on at a moment's notice to play 
the part of queen or clown, boy or elderly woman, as was 
required. 

Mr. EUsler considered that the young girl had a real gift for 
comedy, and when Mr. Dan Setchell, the comedian, played 
with the company, she was given a small part, which she 
played with such keen perception of the points where a "hit" 
could be made, that at last the audience broke into a storm 
of laughter and applause. Mr. Setchell had another speech, 
but the applause was so insistent that he knew it would be an 
anti-cHmax and signaled the prompter to ring down the 
curtain. But Clara Morris knew that he ought to speak, 
and was much frightened by the effect of her business, which 
had so captured the fancy of the audience, for she knew that 
the applause belonged to the star as a matter of professional 
etiquette. She stood trembling like a leaf, until the comedi- 
an came and patted her kindly on the shoulder, saying: 

"Don't be frightened, my girl — that applause was for you. 
You won't be fined or scolded — you've made a hit, that's all!" 

But even the pleasant words did not soothe the tempest of 
emotion surging in the young girl's heart. She says: 

"I went to my room, I sat down with my head in my 
hands. Great drops of sweat came out on my temples. 
My hands were icy cold, my mouth was dry — that applause 
rang in my ears. A cold terror seized on me — a terror of 
what? Ah, a tender mouth was bitted and bridled at last! 
The reins were in the hands of the public, and it would 
drive me, where?" 

As she sat there, in her hideous make-up, in a state of 
despair and panic, she suddenly broke into shrill laughter. 
Two women came in, and one said; "Why, what on earth's 
the matter? Have they blown you up for your didoes to- 
night? What need you care. You pleased the audience." 
The other said, quietly: "Just get a glass of water for her; 

257 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

she has a touch of hysteria. I wonder who caused it?" No 
person had caused it. Clara Morris was merely waking 
from a sound sleep, unconsciously visioning that woman of 
the dim future who was to conquer the public in her por- 
trayal of great elemental human emotion. 

With incessant work and study, and a firm determination 
to stop short of nothing less than the perfection of art, 
those early years of Clara Morris's life on the stage went 
swiftly by, and in her third season she was more than ever 
what she herself called "the dramatic scrape-goat of the 
company," one who was able to play any part at a moment's 
notice. 

"This reputation was heightened when one day, an actor 
falling suddenly sick, Mr. Ellsler, with a furrowed brow, 
begged Clara to play the part. Nothing daunted, the 
challenge was calmly accepted, and in one afternoon she 
studied the part of King Charles, in "Faint Heart Never 
Won Fair Lady," and played it in borrowed clothes and with- 
out any rehearsal whatever, other than finding the situations 
plainly marked in the book ! It was an astonishing thing to 
do, and she was showered with praise for the performance; 
but even this success did not better her fortunes, and she 
went on playing the part of boys and old women, or singing 
songs when forced to it, going on for poor leading parts even, 
and between times dropping back into the ballet, standing 
about in crowds, or taking part in a village dance." 

It was certainly an anomalous position she held in Mr. 
Ellsler's company — but she accepted its ups and downs 
without resistance, taking whatever part came to hand, 
gaining valuable experience from every new role assigned 
her, and hoping for a time when the returns from her work 
would be less meager. 

She was not yet seventeen when the German star, Herr 
Daniel Bandmann, came to play with the company. He was 

258 



CLARA MORRIS 

to open with "Hamlet," and Mrs. Bradshaw, who by right 
should have played the part of Queen Mother, was laid 
up with a broken ankle. Miss Morris says: "It took a good 
deal in the way of being asked to do strange parts to startle 
me, but the Queen Mother did it. I was just nicely past 
sixteen, and I was to go on the stage for the serious Shake- 
sperian mother of a star. Oh, I couldn't!" 

"Can't be helped — no one else," growled Mr. Ellsler; 
"Just study your lines, right away, and do the best you can." 

"I had been brought up to obey," says Miss Morris, "and 
I obeyed. The dreaded morning of rehearsal came. There 
came a call for the Queen. I came forward. Herr Band- 
mann glanced at me, half smiled, waved his arms, and said, 
'Not you, not the Player-Queen, but GERTRUDE.' 

"I faintly answered, 'I'm sorry, sir, but I have to play 
Gertrude!' 

"*0h no, you won't!' he cried, 'not with me!' Then, 
turning to Mr, Ellsler, he lost his temper and only con- 
trolled it when he was told that there was no one else to take 
the part; if he would not play with me, the theater must be 
closed for the night. Then he calmed down and conde- 
scended to look the girl over who was to play such an inap- 
propriate role. 

"The night came — a big house, too, I remember," says 
Miss Morris. "I wore long and loose garments to make me 
look more matronly, but, alas, the drapery Queen Gertrude 
wears was particularly becoming to me and brought me 
uncommonly near to prettiness. Mr. Ellsler groaned, but 
said nothing, while Mr. Bandmann sneered out an 'Jck 
Himmell' and shrugged his shoulders, as if dismissing the 
matter as hopeless." 

But it was not. " As Bandmann's great scene advanced to 
its climax, so well did the young Queen Mother play up to 
Hamlet, that the applause was rapturous. The curtain felL 

l8 2!;q 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

and to her utter amaze she found herself lifted high in the 
air and crushed to Hamlet's bosom, with a crackling sound 
of breaking Roman pearls and in a whirlwind of German 
exclamations, kissed on brow, cheeks and eyes. Then dis- 
jointed English came forth; *'0h, you are so great, you 
kleine apple-cheeked girl! You maker of the fraud — you so 
great, nobody. Ach, you are fire — you have pride — you are 
a Gertrude who have shame!" More kisses, then suddenly 
realizing that the audience was still applauding, he dragged 
her before the curtain, he bowed, he waved his hands, he 
threw one arm around my shoulders. *'He isn't going to do 
it all over again — out here, is he?" thought the victim of his 
enthusiasm, and began backing out of sight as quickly as 
possible." 

That amusing experience led to one of the most precious 
memories of Clara Morris's career, when, a month after the 
departure of the impetuous German, who should be an- 
nounced to play with the company but Mr. Edwin Booth. 
As Clara Morris read the cast of characters, she says, "I 
felt my eyes growing wider as I saw — 

Queen Gertrude Miss Morris. 

I had succeeded before, oh yes, but this was a different 
matter. All girls have their gods — some have many of 
them. My gods were few, and on the highest pedestal of all, 
grave and gentle, stood the god of my professional idolatry — 
Edwin Booth. It was humiliating to be forced on any one as 
I should be forced upon Mr. Booth, since there was still none 
but my "apple-cheeked" self to go on for the Queen, and 
though I dreaded complaint and disparaging remarks from 
him, I was honestly more unhappy over the annoyance this 
blemish on the cast would cause him. But it could not be 
helped, so I wiped my eyes, repeated my chidlish little old- 
time 'Now I lay me,' and went to sleep. 

260 



CLARA MORRIS 

**The dreaded Monday came, and at last — the call, 'Mr. 
Booth would like to see you for a few moments in his room.' 

"He was dressed for Hamlet when I entered. He looked 
up, smiled, and, waving his hand, said in Bandmann's very 
words: *No, not you — not the Player-Queen — but GER- 
TRUDE.' 

"My whole heart was in my voice as I gasped: 'I'm so 
sorry, sir, but I have to do Queen Gertrude. You see,' I 
rushed on, 'our heavy woman has a broken leg and can't act. 
But if you please,' I added, 'I had to do this part with Mr. 
Bandmann, too, and — and — I'll only worry you with my 
looks, sir, not about the words or business.' 

"He rested his dark, unspeakably melancholy eyes on my 
face, then he sighed and said: 'Well, it was the closet scene 
I wanted to speak to you about. When the ghost appears 
you are to be — ' He stopped, a faint smile touched his 
lips, and he remarked: 

"'There's no denying it, my girl, I look a great deal more 
like your father than you look like my mother — but — ' He 
went on with his directions, and, considerate gentlemen that 
he was, spoke no single unkind word to me, though my play- 
ing of that part must have been a great annoyance to him. 

"When the closet scene was over, the curtain down, I 
caught up my petticoats and made a rapid flight roomward. 
The applause was filHng the theater. Mr. Booth, turning, 
called after me: 'You — er — Gertrude — er — Queen! Oh, 
somebody call that child back here!' and somebody roared, 
'Clara, Mr. Booth is calling you!' I turned, but stood still. 
He beckoned, then came and took my hand, saying, 'My 
dear, we must not keep them waiting too long,' and led me 
before the curtain with him. I very slightly bent my head 
to the audience, whom I felt were applauding Hamlet only, 
but turned and bowed myself to the ground to him whose 
courtesy had brought me there. 

261 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

When we came off he smiled amusedly, tapped me on the 
shoulder, and said: 'My Gertrude, you are very young, but 
you know how to pay a pretty compliment — thank you, 
child!' 

**So," says Miss Morris, "whenever you see pictures of 
nymphs or goddesses floating in pink clouds and looking 
idiotically happy, you can say to yourself: 'That is just 
how Clara Morris felt when Edwin Booth said she had paid 
him a compHment.' Yes, I floated, and I'll take a solemn 
oath, if necessary, that the whole theater was filled with 
pink clouds the rest of that night, for girls are made that way, 
and they can't help it." 

The young actress was now rapidly acquiring a knowledge 
of her ability to act; she also knew that as long as she re- 
mained with Mr. Ellsler there would be no advancement for 
her, and a firm determination took possession of her to take a 
plunge into the big world, where perhaps there might be a 
chance not only to earn enough to take care of herself, but 
also enough so that her mother would no longer be obliged 
to work, which was Clara's bitter mortification. 

While she was considering the advisability of making a 
change, she received an offer from a Mr. Macaulay, 
manager of Wood's Museum, at Cincinnati, Ohio. He 
offered a small salary, but as she was to be his leading woman 
she decided to accept the offer. "When the matter was 
apparently settled, he wrote, saying that ' because of the 
youth of his new star, he wished to reserve a few parts which 
his wife would act.' Only too well did Clara Morris under- 
stand what that meant — that the choicest parts would be 
reserved. Then an amusing thing happened. She, who 
was so lacking in self-confidence, suddenly developed an 
ability to stand up for her rights. By return mail she 
informed Mr. Macaulay that her youth had nothing to do 
with the matter — that she would be the leading woman and 

262 



CLARA MORRIS 

play all parts or none. His repl}^ was a surprise, as it con- 
tained a couple of signed contracts and a pleasant request to 
sign both and return one at once. He regretted her in- 
ability to grant his request, but closed by expressing his 
respect for her firmness in demanding her rights. Straight- 
way she signed her first contract, and went out to mail it. 
When she returned she had made up her mind to take a great 
risk. She had decided that her mother should never again 
receive commands from any one — that her shoulders were 
strong enough to bear the welcome burden, that they would 
face the new hfe and its possible sufferings together — to- 
gethevy that was the main thing." She says : 

"As I stood before the glass smoothing my hair, I gravely 
bowed to the reflection and said, 'Accept my congratula- 
tions and best wishes, Wood's leading lady!' — and then fell 
on the bed and sobbed . . . because, you see, the way had 
been so long and hard, but I had won one goal — I was a lead- 
ing woman!" 

Leaving behind the surroundings of so many years was 
not a light matter, nor was the parting with the Ellslers, of 
whose theatrical family she had been a member for so long, 
easy. When the hour of leave-taking came, she was very 
sad. She had to make the journey alone, as her mother 
also was to join her only when she had found a place to settle 
in. Mr. Ellsler was sick for the first time since she had known 
him. She said good-by to him in his room, and left feeling 
very despondent, he seemed so weak. "Judge then," says 
Miss Morris, "my amazement when, hearing a knock on my 
door and caUing, *Come in' — Mr. Ellsler, pale and almost 
staggering, entered. A rim of red above his white muffler 
betrayed his bandaged throat, and his poor voice was but 
a husky whisper: 

"*I could not help it,' he said. *You were placed under 
my care once by your mother. You were a child then, and 

2Gz 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

though you are pleased to consider yourself a woman now, 
I could not bear to think of your leaving the city without 
some old friend being by for a parting God-speed.' 

*T was inexpressibly grateful, but he had yet another 
surprise for me. He said, *I wanted, too, Clara, to 
make you a little present that would last long and remind 
you daily of — of — er — the years you have passed in my 
theater.' 

"He drew a small box from his pocket. *A good girl and 
a good actress,' he said, 'needs and ought to own a' — he 
touched a spring, the box flew open — 'a good watch,' he 
finished. 

"Literally, I could not speak, having such agony of dehght 
in its beauty, of pride in its possession, of satisfaction in a 
need supplied, of gratitude and surprise immeasurable. 
*0h!' and again *0h!' was all that I could cry, while I 
pressed it to my cheek and gloated over it. My thanks 
must have been sadly jumbled and broken, but my pride 
and pleasure made Mr. Ellsler laugh, and then the carriage 
was there, and laughter stilled into a silent, close hand-clasp. 
As I opened the door of the dusty old hack, I saw the first 
star prick brightly through the evening sky. Then the 
hoarse voice said, *God bless you' — and I had left my first 
manager." 

To say that Clara Morris made a success in Cincinnati is 
the barest truth. Her first appearance was in the role of a 
country girl. Cicely y a simple milkmaid with only one speech 
to make, but one which taxed the ability of an actress to the 
uttermost to express what was meant. Clara played this 
part in a demure black-and-white print gown, with a little 
hat tied down under her chin. On the second night, she 
played what is called a "dressed part," a bright, light- 
comedy part in which she wore fine clothes; on the third 
night hers was a "tearful" part. In three nights she com- 

264 



CLARA MORRIS 

pletely won the public, and on the third she received her 
first anonymous gift, a beautiful and expensive set of pink 
corals set in burnished gold. "Flowers, too, came over the 
foot-lights, the like of which she had never seen before, some 
of them costing more than she earned in a week. Then one 
night came a bolder note with a big gold locket, which, 
having its sender's signature, went straight back to him the 
next morning. As a result it began to be whispered about 
that the new star sent back all gifts of jewelry; but when one 
matinee a splendid basket of white camelias came with a 
box of French candied fruit, it dehghted her and created a 
sensation in the dressing-room. That seemed to start a 
fashion, for candies in dainty boxes came to her afterward 
as often as flowers." 

On the night of her first appearance, a lawyer of Cincin- 
nati who saw her play the part of Cicely was so dehghted 
with her interpretation of the small role that he at once 
asked: "Who is she? What is her history?" — only to find 
that, Hke most happy women, she had none. She came from 
Cleveland, she Hved three doors away with her mother — 
that was all. 

Having seen her a second time, he exclaimed, "That girl 
ought to be in New York this very moment!" and he added, 
"I know the foreign theaters — their schools and styles, as 
well as I know the home theaters and their actors. I 
beheve I have made a discovery!" 

After seeing her in the" tearful part," he said firmly: "I 
shall never rest till this Clara Morris faces New York. She 
need clash with no one, need hurt no one, she is unhke any 
one else, and New York has plenty of room for her. I shall 
make it my business to meet her and preach New York until 
she accepts the idea and acts upon it." 

As a result of that determination, at a later date, he met 
the object of his interest and roused her to such an enthusiasm 

265 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

in his New York project that she wrote to Mr. Ellsler, beg- 
ging his aid in reaching New York managers, and one day, 
shortly afterward, she held in her hand a wee sheet of paper, 
containing two lines scrawled in an illegible handwriting: 

"If you send the young woman to me, I will willingly 
consider proposal. Will engage no actress without seeing 
her.— A. Daly." 

It was a difficult proposition, for to obtain leave of absence 
she would be obliged to pay a substitute for at least two 
performances — would have to stop for one night at a New 
York hotel, and so spend what she had saved toward a sum- 
mer vacation. But the scheme was too compelling to be set 
aside. That very night she asked leave of absence, made 
all other necessary arrangements, and before she had time to 
falter in her determination found herself at the Fifth Avenue 
Hotel in the great bustling city of her dreams. She break- 
fasted, and took from her bag a new gray veil, a pair of gray 
gloves and a bit of fresh ruffling. Then, having made all 
the preparation she could to meet the arbiter of her fate, in 
her usual custom she said a prayer to that Father in whose 
protecting care she had an unfaltering trust. Then, she 
says, "I rose and went forth, prepared to accept success or 
defeat, just as the good Lord should will." 

Having found Mr. Daly, she looked bravely into his eyes 
and spoke with quick determination to lose no time: "I am 
the girl come out of the West to be inspected. I'm Clara 
Morris!" 

That was the preface to an interview which ended in his 
offer to engage her, but without a stated line of business. 
He would give her thirty-five dollars a week, he said (know- 
ing there were two to live on it), and if she made a favorable 
impression he would double that salary. 

266 



CLARA MORRIS 

A poor offer — a risky undertaking, exclaimed Clara. "In 
my pocket was an offer which I had received just before 
leaving for New York, from a San Francisco manager, with a 
salary of one hundred dollars, a benefit, and no vacation at 
all, unless I wished it. This offer was fairly burning a hole 
in my pocket as I talked with Mr. Daly, who, while we 
talked, was filling up a blank contract, for my signature. 
Thirty-five dollars against one hundred dollars. *But if you 
make a favorable impression you'll get seventy dollars.' 
I thought, and why should I not make a favorable impres- 
sion? Yet, if I fail now in New York, I can go West or 
South not much harmed. If I wait till I am older and 
fail, if will ruin my life. I slipped my hand in my pocket 
and gave a little farewell tap to the contract for one 
hundred dollars; I took the pen; I looked hard at him. 
'There's a heap of trust asked for in this contract,' I 
remarked. *You won't forget your promise about doub- 
Hng the contract?' 

"*I won't forget anything,* he answered. 

"Then I wrote 'Clara Morris' twice, shook hands, and 
went out and back to Cincinnati, with an engagement in a 
New York theater for the coming season." 

As the tangible results of a benefit performance Clara was 
able to give her mother a new spring gown and bonnet and 
send her off to visit in Cleveland, before turning her face 
toward Halifax, where she had accepted a short summer 
engagement. At the end of it she went on to New York, 
engaged rooms in a quiet old-fashioned house near the thea- 
ter, and telegraphed her mother to come. "She came," 
says Miss Morris, "and that blessed evening found us house- 
keeping at last. We were settled, and happily ready to 
begin the new life in the great, strange city." 

From that moment, through the frenzied days of rehearsal 
with a new company, and with a large number of untoward 

267 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

incidents crowded into each day, life moved swiftly on 
toward the first appearance of Clara Morris on the New York 
stage. 

With a sort of dogged despair she lived through the worry 
of planning how to buy costumes out of her small reserve 
fund. When at last all her gowns were ready, she had two 
dollars and thirty-eight cents left, on which she and her 
mother must hve until her first week's salary should be paid. 
Worse than that, on the last awful day before the opening 
night she had a sharp attack of pleurisy. A doctor was 
called, who, being intoxicated, treated the case wrongly. 
Another physician had to be summoned to undo the work 
of the first, and as a result Daly's new actress was in a con- 
dition little calculated to give her confidence for such an 
ordeal as the coming one. She says, "I could not swallow 
food — / could not! As the hour drew near my mother stood 
over me while with tear-filled eyes I disposed of a raw beaten 
egg; then she forced me to drink a cup of broth, fearing a 
breakdown if I tried to go through five such acts as awaited 
me without food. I always kissed her good-by, and that 
night my Hps were so cold and stiff with fright that they 
would not move. I dropped my head for one moment on 
her shoulder; she patted me silently with one hand and 
opened the door with the other. I glanced back. Mother 
waved her hand and called: *Good luck! God bless you!' 
and I was on my way to my supreme test." 

A blaze of lights, a hum of voices, a brilliant throng of 
exquisitely gowned, bejeweled women and well-groomed 
men, in fact a house such as Wood's leading lady had never 
before confronted! A chance for triumph or for disaster — 
and triumph it was! Like a rolhng snowball, it grew as the 
play advanced. Again and again Clara Morris took a cur- 
tain call with the other actresses. Finally the stage manager 
said to Mr. Daly, "They want A^r," and Mr. Daly answered, 

268 



CLARA MORRIS 

sharply: "I know what they want, and I know what I don't 
want. Ring up again!" 

He did so. But it was useless. At last Mr. Daly said, 
*'0h, well, ring up once more, and here, you take it yourself." 
Alone, Clara Morris stood before the brilliant throng, 
vibrating to the spontaneous storm of enthusiasm, and as she 
stood before them the audience rose as one individual, car- 
ried out of themselves by an actress whose work was as rare 
as it was unique — work which never for one moment de- 
scended to mere stagecraft, but in its simplest gesture was 
throbbing with vital human emotion. 

As the curtain fell at last, while there was a busy hum 
of excited voices, the young person whose place on the 
New York stage was assured slipped into her dressing-room, 
scrambled into her clothes, and rushed from the theater, 
hurrying to carry the good news to the two who were eagerly 
awaiting her — her mother and her dog. " At last she saw the 
lighted windows that told her home was near. In a moment, 
through a tangle of hat, veil, and wriggling, welcoming dog, 
she cried: 

"'It's all right, mumsey — a success! Lots and lots of 
"calls," dear, and, oh, is there anything to eat? / am so 
hungry!' 

" So while the new actress's name was floating over many a 
restaurant supper its owner sat beneath one gas-jet, be- 
tween mother and pet, eating a large piece of bread and a 
small piece of cheese, telling her small circle of admirers all 
about it, and winding up with the declaration, 'Mother, I 
believe the hearts are just the same, whether they beat 
against Western ribs or Eastern ribs!' 

"Then, supper over, she stumbled through the old-time 
*Now I lay me,' and, adding some blurred words of grati- 
tude, she says, *I fell asleep, knowing that through God's 
mercy and my own hard work I was the first Western actress 

269 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

who had ever been accepted by a New York audience, and 
as I drowsed off I murmured to myself: 

" * And I'll leave the door open, now that I have opened it — 
I'll leave it open for all the others.' " 

She did. Through that open door has passed a long pro- 
cession from West to East since the day when the young 
woman from Cleveland brought New York to her feet by her 
unique abiHty and dramatic perception. A lover of litera- 
ture from childhood, a writer of books in later days, Clara 
Morris moved on through the years of her brilliant dramatic 
career to a rare achievement, not led by the lure of the foot- 
hghts or the flimsier forms of so-called dramatic art, but by 
the call of the highest. 

Well may the matinee girl of to-day, or the stage-struck 
young person who responds to the glitter and glare, the ap- 
plause and the superficial charm of the theatrical world, 
listen to Miss Morris's story of "Life on the Stage," and 
realize that laurels only crown untiring efi'ort, success only 
comes after patient labor, and great emotional actresses 
come to their own through the white heat of sacrifice, 
struggle, and supreme desire. 



ANNA DICKINSON: THE GIRL ORATOR 

AVERY well-known lawyer of Philadelphia was sit- 
ting in his private office one morning when word was 
brought in to him that a young lady wished to see him. The 
office-boy had never seen her before, and she had not given 
her name, but she was very firm in her intention not to be 
refused an interview. 

"Show her in," said the lawyer, pushing back his chair 
with a bored expression and a resolution to send the stranger 
away at short notice if she was not a client. What was his 
surprise when a very young girl, still wearing short dresses, 
was ushered in, and stood before him with such an earnest 
expression in her bright eyes that she instantly attracted 
him. Motioning her to take a seat, he asked her errand. 

**I wish some copying to do," was the reply, in such a 
musical voice that the lawyer became still more interested. 

"Do you intend to do it yourself?" he asked. 

She bowed assent. "Yes," she said. "We are in need of 
money and I must help. I write a clear hand." 

So pleased was he with her manner and her quiet words, 
"We are in need of money and I must help," as well as 
touched by her self-reliance at an age when girls are generally 
amusing themselves, that he gave her some copying which he 
had intended to have done in the office. With a grateful 
glance from her brilliant dark eyes, she thanked him, and, 
promising to bring the work back as soon as possible, she left 
the office. 

As the door closed behind her the lawyer opened a drawer 
271 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

and took from it a little faded photograph of a young girl 
with dark eyes and curly hair, looked at it long and sadly, 
then replaced it in the drawer and went on with his work. 

On the following day, when the office-boy announced "the 
young lady with the copying," she was summoned to his 
office at once and given a hearty hand-clasp. 

"I am glad to see you again," the lawyer said. "I had a 
daughter you remind me of strongly. She died when she 
was twelve years old. Be seated, please, and tell me a little 
about yourself. You are very young to be doing such work 
as this. Is your father living, and why are you not in 
school?" 

Compelled by his kindly interest, the young girl talked 
as freely with him as if he were an old friend. Her name, 
she said, was Anna EHzabeth Dickinson, and she was born 
in Philadelphia, thirteen years before, on the 28th of October. 
Her father, John Dickinson, and her mother, who had beeu 
Mary Edmundson before her marriage, were both persons 
who were interested in the vital questions of the day, and 
Anna had been brought up in an atmosphere of refinement 
and of high principles. All this her new friend learned by a 
series of friendly questions, and Anna, having begun her 
story, continued with a degree of frankness which was little 
less than surprising, after so short an acquaintance. Her 
father had been a merchant, and had died when she was two 
years old, leaving practically no income for the mother to 
live on and bring up her five children. Both mother and 
father were Quakers, she said, and she was evidently very 
proud of her father, for her eyes flashed as she said: "He was 
a wonderful man! Of course, I can't remember it, but 
mother has told me that the last night of his Hfe, when he 
was very sick, he went to an anti-slavery meeting and made a 
remarkably fine speech. Yes, father was wonderful." 

"And your mother?" queried her new friend. 
272 



ANNA DICKINSON 

Tears dimmed the young girl's eyes. ''There aren't any 
words to express mother," she said. "That is why I am 
trying to work at night, or at least part of the reason," she 
added, with frank honesty, "We take boarders and mother 
teaches in a private school, too, but even that doesn't give 
enough money for six of us to Hve on, and she is so pale and 
tired all the time." She added, with a toss of her curly 
head: "And I must have money to buy books, too, but 
helping mother is more important." 

Entirely absorbed in her own narrative now, she continued 
to pour out a flood of facts with such an eloquence and per- 
suasive use of words that her hearer was lost in amazement 
over a young girl who was so fluent in her use of language. 
From her frank tale he gathered that she had been a way- 
ward, wilful, intense, and very imaginative child, who, despite 
her evident devotion to her mother, had probably given her 
many hours of worry and unhappiness. It was evident also 
that as a younger child she had been considered an incor- 
rigible pupil at school, for she seemed to have always rebelled 
against discipHne which she thought unnecessary. 

"They could punish me all they liked," she said, with 
flashing eyes. "I would never obey a rule that had not been 
explained to me and that wasn't fair — never! Teachers 
and mothers were always telling good little girls not to play 
with me, and I was glad! Girls the teachers call 'good' 
sometimes are not that at all; they just know how to hide 
things from the teachers." As her hearer made no com- 
ment, but hstened with an amused smile curving his lips, 
Anna continued: "I adore books, but, oh, how I hate school, 
when the rich girls laugh at my clothes and then at me if 
I tell them that my mother is poor and we work for all we 
have! It isn't fair, because we can't help it, and we do the 
best we can. I never would say it to them in the world — 
never! In the first school I went to they used to tease 

273 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

the children who were timid, and bother them so much that 
they would forget their lessons and get punished when it 
was not their fault. But / looked after them," declared 
Anna, proudly. "I fought their battles for them, until the 
others left them alone, because they were afraid to fight me, 
I was so strong. Oh, sir," she cried, **why can't people 
always be fair and square, I wonder.''" 

As if mesmerized by the intensity of this remarkable 
young reformer, the lawyer found himself repeating, *'I 
wonder!" as if he had no opinions on the subject, but at the 
same time he was doing some thinking in regard to such a 
unique character as this one before him. When she had 
finished speaking he rose and put a bundle of work in her 
hand. "I will help you and your brave mother all I can,' 
he said. "While you are doing that copying I will speak to 
other lawyers, who, I am sure, will give you more to do. 
I have looked over what you have done, and can warmly 
recommend you as a copyist. I hope we shall have many 
more long talks together." 

So with her package under her arm, and a warm feeling of 
satisfaction in her heart because she had found a new friend 
who said she could do good work, she hurried home. 

Almost from baby days it had been evident that Anna 
Dickinson was no ordinary child, and how to curb the rest- 
less spirit and develop the strong nature into a fine woman 
was a great problem for the already over-burdened mother. 
Even as a young child Anna had an iron will, and discipline, 
of which she later learned the value, so chafed her indepen- 
dent nature that she was generally in a state of rebellion. 
From her own story it was clear that she must have been a 
terror to unjust teachers or pupils; but she did not mention 
the many devoted friends she had gained by her champion- 
ship of those who were not being treated fairly according to 
her ideas. Hers was a strong, talented, courageous, fearless 

274 



ANNA DICKINSON 

nature, which was bound to be a great power for good or 
evil. The scales were turned in the right direction by her 
passionate love for her mother and an intense desire to Hft 
some of the burden of finanical worry from her shoulders, as 
she saw Mrs. Dickinson, with tireless industry, struggle to 
make ends meet, and to feed, clothe, and educate her father- 
less children. Her one determination was to have them grow 
up into noble men and women, but in Anna's early life it 
seemed as if the tumultuous nature would never be brought 
to any degree of poise and self-control. She showed a marked 
love of books, even when she was only seven years old, and 
would take one of her mother's volumes of Byron's poems 
and, hiding under a bed, where she would not be disturbed, 
read for hours. 

When she was about twelve years old Anna went to the 
" Westover Boarding-school of Friends," where she remained 
for almost two years, and from which she went to the 
"Friends' Select School" in Philadelphia, where she was 
still studying when she applied for copying and found a new 
friend. Both of the schools were free Quaker schools, as her 
mothercould not afford to send her elsewhere, and in both she 
stood high for scholarship, if not for deportment. In the 
latter institution she was noted for never failing in a recita- 
tion, although she was taking twelve subjects at one time, 
and was naturally looked upon with awe and admiration 
by less brilliant pupils. A new scholar once questioned her 
as to her routine of work, and the reply left her questioner 
speechless with wonder. 

"Oh, I haven't any," said Anna, with a toss of her curly 
head. "And I don't study. I just go to bed and read, 
sometimes till one o'clock in the morning — poetry, novels, 
and all sorts of things; then just before I go to sleep I look 
my lessons over." Evidently the new-comer was a bit 
doubtful of being able to follow her leader, for Anna added, 

19 275 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

reassuringly: "Oh yes, you can, if you try. It's easy when 
you get the habit!" and went off, leaving a much-amazed 
girl behind her. 

At the time of her visit to the lawyer's office Anna begged 
to be allowed to leave school to try and add to the family 
income, but her practical mother pursuaded her not to do 
this for at least a year or so, and, seeing the wisdom of the 
advice, Anna remained in the ''Friends' School." So 
active was her mind that for weeks at a time she did not 
sleep over five hours a night; the remaining time she spent 
in dping all the copying she could get and in reading every 
book on which she could lay her hands. Newspapers, 
speeches, tracts, history, biography, poetry, novels and 
fairy-tales — she devoured them all with eager interest. A 
favorite afternoon pastime of hers was to go to the Anti- 
Slavery Office, where, curled up in a cozy corner, she would 
read their Hterature or Hsten to arguments on the subject 
presented by persons who came and went. At other times 
she would be seized with a perfect passion for a new book, 
and would go out into the streets, determined not to return 
home until she had earned enough to buy the coveted prize. 
At such a time she would run errands or carry bundles or 
bags for passengers coming from trains until she had enough 
money for her book. Then she would hurry to a book- 
store, linger long and lovingly over the piles of volumes, and 
finally buy one, which she would take home and devour, 
then take it to a second-hand bookshop and sell it for a 
fraction of what it cost, and get another. 

Among her other delights were good lectures, and she 
eagerly watched the papers to find out when George William 
Curtis, Wendell PhiUips, or Henry Ward Beecher was going 
to lecture in the city; then she would start out on a campaign 
to earn the price of a ticket for the lecture. 

One day when she had read much about Wendell Phillips, 
276 



ANNA DICKINSON 

but never heard him, she saw that he was to lecture in 
Philadelphia on "The Lost Arts." It happened that there 
was no copying for her to do at that time, and she had no 
idea how to earn the twenty-five cents which would give her 
the coveted admittance; but go to the lecture she must. As 
she walked past a handsome residence she noticed that coal 
had just been put in and the sidewalk left very grimy- 
Boldly ringing the bell, she asked if she might scrub the walk, 
and as a result of her exertion a triumphant young girl was 
the first person to present herself at the hall that night, and 
quite the most thrilled listener among the throng- that 
packed the house to hear Wendell Phillips. Although her 
career was so soon to find her out, Httle did Anna dream on 
that night, as she listened spellbound to the orator of the 
occasion, that not far in the future many of that audience 
were to be applauding a young girl with dark eyes, curly 
hair, and such force of character and personal magnetism 
that she was to sway her audiences even to a greater extent 
than the man to whom she was listening. 

When she was seventeen Anna left school for good, feeling 
that she could not afford to give any more time to study 
while her mother needed so many comforts and necessities 
which money could buy. So she left the "Friends' Select 
School," and in her unselfish reason for this, and the fact that 
she was forced to support herself and others at such an early 
age, when she longed for a more thorough education, Hes an 
appeal for kindly criticism of her work rather than a verdict 
of superficiality, which some gave who did not understand or 
appreciate the nature, the inspiration, or the real genius of 
the young and enthusiastic girl. 

She was offered a position as teacher in a school in New 
Brighton, Beaver County, and accepting it she spent a few 
months there, but as she did not like it she appHed for a dis- 
trict-school position that was vacant in the same town. 

277 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

When she had made all but the final arrangements with the 
committee she asked, "What salary do you give?" 

A committeeman replied: "A man has had the position 
until now. We gave him twenty-eight dollars a month, but 
we should not think of giving a girl more than sixteen." 
Something in his manner and words stung Anna like a lash, 
and, drawing herself up to her full height, she turned to 
leave the room. 

"Sir," she said, "though I am too poor to-day to buy a 
pair of cotton gloves, I would rather go in rags than degrade 
my womanhood by accepting anything at your hands!" 
And off she went, to try her fate in some other place and way, 
absolutely sure that in some unknown manner she was to 
wrest success from the future. Young, inexperienced, 
penniless, and with few friends, she passed weeks looking for 
a situation in vain. At last she was offered work in a store? 
but when she found that she must tell what was not true 
about goods to customers rather than lose a sale, she put 
on her hat and left at once, and again began her weary quest 
of work. Everywhere she found that, if she had been a boy, 
she could have secured better positions and pay than she 
could as a girl. Also in her wide range of reading she dis- 
covered that many of the advantages of Hfe and all of the 
opportunities, at that time, were given to men rather than 
to women. Her independent nature was filled with de- 
termination to do something to alter this, if she ever had a 
chance. It came sooner than she would have dared to hope. 

One Sunday she was sitting at home, reading a newspaper, 
when she saw a notice of a meeting to be held that afternoon 
in a certain hall by the "Association of Progressive Friends," 
to discuss "Woman's Rights and Wrongs." She would go. 
Having decided this, she went to the home of a young friend 
and pursuaded her to go, too, and together they walked to 
the hall and were soon deeply engrossed in the arguments 

278 



ANNA DICKINSON 

presented by the speakers. The presiding officer of the 
afternoon was a Doctor Longshore, who announced before 
the meeting began that at the close of the formal discussion 
ladies were requested to speak, as the subject was one in 
which they were especially interested. 

"One after another, women rose and gave their views on the 
question. Then, near the center of the house a girl arose 
whose youthful face, black curls, and bright eyes, as well as 
her musical voice and subdued but impressive manner, com- 
manded the attention of the audience. She spoke twice as 
long as each speaker was allowed, and right to the point, 
sending a thrill of interest through her Hsteners, who re- 
membered that speech for many a long day. At the close 
of the meeting more than one in the audience came forward 
and spoke to the beaming girl, thanking her for her brilHant 
defense of her sex, and asking her to surely come to the 
meeting on the following Sunday." Flushed with triumph 
and excitement, she received the praise and congratulations 
and promised to be present the next week. When the time 
came she again rose and spoke in glowing language of the 
rights and privileges which should be given to women as well 
as to men. As soon as she sat down a tall, nervous man, with 
an air of proud assurance that the world was made for his 
sex, rose and spoke firmly against Anna's arguments, voicing 
his belief that men were by right the lords and masters of 
creation. While he spoke he fixed his eyes on Anna, as if 
enchanted by the sight of her rapidly crimsoning cheeks and 
flashing eyes, which showed emotions at white heat. The 
moment he finished she stood again, and this time, young and 
inexperienced though she was, with little education and less 
knowledge of the great world, she held her audience spell- 
bound by the clear ideas which she poured out in almost 
flawless English, and by her air of conviction which carried 
belief in her arguments with it. She spoke clearly, steadily, 

279 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

as she summed up all the wrongs she had been obliged to 
suffer through a struggling girlhood, as well as all she had 
seen and read about and felt in her soul to be true, although 
she had no tangible proofs. On flowed the tide of her ora- 
tory in such an outburst of real feeling that her hearers were 
electrified, amazed, by the rare magnetism of this young 
and unknown girl. As she spoke she drew nearer to the man, 
whose eyes refused now to meet her keen dark ones, and who 
seemed deeply confused as she scored point after point in 
defense, saying, " Fow, sir! said so and so,'* . . . with each 
statement sweeping away his arguments one by one until he 
had no ground left to stand on. When her last word had 
been said and she took her seat amid a storm of applause, he 
swiftly and silently rose and left the hall, to the great amuse- 
ment of the audience, whose sympathies were entirely with 
the young girl who had stated her case so brilHantly. 

"Who is she?" was the question asked on every side as the 
eager crowd pushed its way out of the building, all curious 
to get a nearer view of the youthful speaker. Doctor 
Longshore, who had opened the meeting, as on the previous 
Sunday, was now determined to become acquainted with 
Anna and find out what had gone into the making of such a 
remarkable personality, and at the close of the meeting he 
lost no time in introducing himself to her and making an 
engagement to go to the Dickinson home to meet her family. 

Before the time of his promised call — in fact, before Anna 
had even mentioned her success as a speaker to her mother — 
while she was out one day two gentlemen called at the house 
and inquired if Miss Anna Dickinson lived there. Her 
mother's cheeks paled with fright, for she feared Anna had 
been doing some unconventional thing which the strangers 
had come to report. When they said they had heard her 
speak at a pubHc meeting and were so much pleased with her 
speech that they had come to find out something about her 

280 



ANNA DICKINSON 

home surroundings, Mrs. Dickinson's brow cleared, and, 
leading them into the house, she spent a pleasant half-hour 
with them, and was secretely delighted with their comments 
on her daughter's first appearance in public. When Anna 
came home Mrs. Dickinson took her to task for not telling 
her about such a great event, and was surprised to see the 
real diffidence which the girl showed when she was questioned 
about the meetings and her speeches. A few days later 
Doctor Longshore called with her brother, Elwood, and with 
their flattering assurances that her daughter was a born 
speaker, and that she had already made some valuable 
points on a vital subject, Mrs. Dickinson began to feel that 
all her worry over Anna's turbulent childhood and restless 
girlhood had not been in vain, that she was born to do great 
things, and from that time she took a genuine pride in all the 
achievements of the young girl who came so rapidly into 
pubhc notice. 

The Longshores took Anna into their hearts and home at 
once, and many of her happiest hours were spent with them. 
"We felt toward her," Doctor Longshore said, "as if she 
were our own child. We were the first strangers to show an 
interest in her welfare and future plans, and she returned our 
friendship with confidence and love." She was always so 
buoyant, so full of vitality and gayety, that her visits were 
eagerly anticipated, and for hours at a time she would enter- 
tain her new friends with vivid and droll accounts of her 
experiences at home and in school and of her attempts to 
make money. And as she had won her way into the hearts 
of her audience, at those first meetings, so now she kept the 
Longshores enthralled, making them laugh at one moment 
and cry at another. One night she had a horrible dream to 
relate. 

"I had been reading an account of the horrors of the slave 
system at its worst," she said. "After going to bed, I was 

281 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

long in falling asleep. Finally I slept and dreamed that I 
was a slave girl, and, oh, the agony of the knowledge! The 
hot sun scorched my burning skin as I toiled in the fields, 
with almost no clothing to soften the sun's heat. I was 
hungry, but there was insufficient food. At last I was 
dressed in clean, showy clothes and led to the auction-block, 
where I was auctioned off to the highest bidder. He led me 
away in triumph to even worse experiences, and when I 
woke up I could not throw off the horror of the awful night- 
mare." 

Seeing her tremble under the misery of the recollection. 
Doctor Longshore soothed her by saying that the dream was 
a natural result of the highly colored account she had been 
reading before going to sleep, that all slaves were not by any 
means treated in such a cruel manner, and at last she grew 
calm. But whenever in future she spoke on the subject of 
slavery this terrible memory would come back to her so 
vividly that it would intensify her power to speak with con- 
viction. 

For several Sundays she went regularly to the "Pro- 
gressive Friends'" meeting and spoke with unvarying suc- 
cess. Then she was invited to go to Mullica Hill, New Jer- 
sey, to speak on the subject, "Woman's Work." After dis- 
cussing the matter with her mother and the Longshores, she 
accepted the invitation and set herself to prepare the lec- 
ture which she was to give. Then, on the first Sunday in 
April, the seventeen-year-old orator went to her trial experi- 
ence as an invited speaker. By that time her praises had 
been widely sung, and when she rose and saw her audience 
there was a sea of upturned, eager faces looking into hers. 
Speaking from the depths of her own experience, she held 
the audience in breathless silence for over an hour. There 
was, it was said, an indescribable pathos in her full, rich voice 
that, aside from what she said, touched the hearts of her 



ANNA DICKINSON 

hearers and moved many to tears, while all were spellbound, 
and at the close of her address no one moved. Finally a man 
rose and voiced the feeling of the people. 

"We will not disperse until the speaker promises to address 
us again this evening," he said, and a burst of applause 
greeted his statement. A starry-eyed girl stood and bowed 
her acknowledgment and agreed to speak again. As the 
audience dispersed Anna heard some one say, "If Lucretia 
Mott had made that speech it would be thought a great 
one." 

As she promised, in the evening she spoke again on slavery, 
with equal success. A collection which was taken up for her 
amounted to several dollars, the first financial result of what 
was to be her golden resource. 

But Anna had no thought of doing pubhc speaking as her 
only means of earning her living. She continued to look 
for positions, but without success. Finally she took a dis- 
trict school in Bucks County, at a monthly salary of twenty- 
five dollars. So interested was she in the "Progressive 
Friends' " Sunday meetings that she went home every second 
week to attend them, and her speeches always won applause 
from an audience that had learned to anticipate the impas- 
sioned statements of the bright-eyed girl who was so much 
younger and so much more intense than any other speaker. 

And now she began to receive invitations to speak in other 
places. On her eighteenth birthday she spoke in a small 
village about thirty miles out of Philadelphia, when she 
fairly electrified her hearers by the force of her arguments 
and the form in which she presented them. She continued 
to teach, although during her summer vacation she made 
many speeches in New Jersey. On one occasion she spoke 
in the open air, in a beautiful grove where hundreds had come 
to hear "the girl orator" give her views on temperance and 
slavery. Her earnestness and conviction of the truth of 

283 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

what she said made a profound impression, and even those 
who later criticized her speech as being the product of an 
immature and superficial mind were held as by a spell while she 
spoke, and secretly admired her while they openly ridiculed 
her arguments. At another time she was asked to speak at 
the laying of the corner-stone of a new Methodist church. 
The clergymen who gathered together were inclined to be 
severe in their judgment of the remarks of a "slip of a girl." 
Anna knew that and resolved to speak with more than usual 
pathos and power. When she began her address amuse- 
ment was evident on the faces of the dignified men looking 
at her. Gradually they grew more interested, the silence 
became intense, and when the men rose to leave they were 
subdued, and some of them even were not ashamed to be 
seen wiping away tears. One of them introduced himself to 
her and with a cordial hand-shake said: "Miss Dickinson, I 
have always ridiculed Woman's Rights, but, so help me God, 
I never shall again." 

But this time the young orator could not help feeling the 
power she had to sway great masses of people, and with a 
thrill of joy she began to beHeve that perhaps in this work 
which she loved above anything else in the world she would 
some day find her vocation, for she was already receiving 
commendation from men and women of a high order of 
intelligence and being given larger contributions as a result 
of her speeches. 

The country was at that time in the beginning of its 
Civil War period, and much was written and said on the 
issue of the hour. At a Kennett Square meeting, where hot 
debates were held on the burning question of the day, Anna 
was one of the speakers, and one of the press notices on the 
following day said: 

"... The next speaker was Miss Anna Dickinson, of 
Philadelphia, handsome, of an expressive countenance, 

284 



ANNA DICKINSON 

plainly dressed, and eloquent beyond her years. After the 
listless, monotonous harangues of the previous part of the 
day, the distinct, earnest tones of this juvenile Joan of Arc 
were very sweet and charming. During her discourse, 
which was frequently interrupted. Miss Dickinson main- 
tained her presence of mind, and uttered her radical senti- 
ments with resolution and plainness. Those who did not 
sympathize with her remarks were softened by her simplicity 
and solemnity. Her speech was decidedly the speech of the 
evening. . . . Miss Dickinson, we understand, is a member 
of the Society of Friends, and her speech came in the shape of 
a retort to remarks which were contrary to her own beHefs. 
With her usual clear-cut conviction and glowing oratory, 
Miss Dickinson said that: 

***We are told to maintain constitutions because they are 
constitutions, and compromises because they are compro- 
mises. But what are compromises?' asked the young 
speaker, 'and what was laid down in these constitutions .f* 
Eminent lawgivers have said that certain great fundamental 
ideas of right are common to the world, and that all laws 
of man's making which trample on those idea are null and 
void — wrong to obey, but right to disobey. The Constitu- 
tion of the United States sat upon the neck of those rights, 
recognizes human slavery, and makes the souls of men 
articles of purchase and sale.'" 

So clear of mind and expression was the young orator that 
her statements sank as deeply into the minds of her hearers 
as if spoken by a far more learned person, and from that time 
her intense nature had found its true outlet, and her longing 
to provide her mother with some of the comforts which had 
so long been denied her was soon to be realized. 

In that same year of her speech at Kennett Square, on an 
evening in late February, she spoke in Concert Hall, Phila- 
delphia, before an audience of about eight hundred persons. 

285 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

For two hours she spoke, without notes and with easy 
fluency. There were many well-known men and women 
there, who were delighted with what they were pleased to 
call a young girl's notable performance. But Anna herself 
was far from pleased with her speech. Afterward, on 
reaching the Longshores', she threw herself into a chair with 
an air of utter despondency, and, in response to their praise, 
only shook her head. 

"I am mortified," she declared. "I spoke too long, and 
what I said lacked arrangement, order, and point. And 
before such an audience!" 

This incident shows clearly that, despite all the flattery 
which was showered on her at that time, she did not lose her 
sense of balance, but knew with a keen instinct whether she 
had achieved her end or not. 

And now winter was over and spring had come with its 
spirit of new birth and fulfilment. And, as the buds began 
to swell and open, the strong will and fresh young spirit of 
Anna Dickinson asserted itself in a desire for more profitable 
daily work, for as yet she was not able to give up other 
employment for the pubHc speaking which brought her in 
uneven returns. She disHked the confinement and routine 
of teaching so much that she decided to try a new kind of 
work, and secured a place in the Mint, where she described 
her duties vividly to her interested friends. 

"I sat on a stool," she said, "from seven o'clock In the 
morning to six at night for twenty-eight dollars a month. 
The atmosphere of the room was close and Impure, as It was 
necessary to keep all windows and doors closed In the adjust- 
ing-room, for the least draught of air would vary the scales." 
Not a very congenial occupation for the independent nature 
of the young orator, but, although she disUked the work, she 
was very skilful at it, and soon became the fastest adjuster 
in the Mint. But ^hc could not bear the confinement of the 

286 



ANNA DICKINSON 

adjusting-room and changed to the coining-room, yet even 
that was impossible to a spirit which had seen a vision of 
creative work and of ability to do it. Then, too, she thor- 
oughly disliked the men with whom she was thrown and their 
beliefs, knowing them to be opposed to principles which 
she held sacred; so when, in November, she made a speech on 
the events of the war, in which she stated her views so frankly 
that when they came to the ears of Government officials who 
did not agree with her she was dismissed from the Mint> 
she was rather pleased than troubled. 

Through the remainder of the winter she continued to 
speak in various suburbs of the city, not always to sympa- 
thetic audiences, for so radical were some of her assertions^ 
especially coming from the lips of a mere girl, that she was 
hissed time and again for her assertions. Despite this, she 
was becoming well known as a speaker of great ability, and 
as the war went on, with its varying successes for the North 
and South, she thought with less intensity on the subjects of 
the future of the negro and the wrongs of women, and became 
more deeply absorbed in questions of national importance, 
which was a fortunate thing for her. She was enthusiastic, 
eloquent, young and pretty, all of which characteristics 
made her a valuable ally for any cause. Mr. Garrison, the 
noted Abolitionist, heard her speak twice, and was so 
delighted with her manner and abiHty that he asked for an 
introduction to her, and invited her to visit Boston and make 
his house her home while there. She thanked him with 
pretty enthusiasm and accepted, but before going to Boston 
was persuaded to give the lecture in Philadelphia, for which 
she had been dismissed from the Mint. A ten-cent admission 
was charged, and Judge Pierce, one of the early advocates of 
Woman's Rights, presided and introduced the young 
speaker. The house was crowded, and this time she was 
satisfied with her lecture, while the eager Longshores and 

287 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

her mother were filled with a just pride. After all expenses 
were paid she was handed a check for a bigger sum of money 
than she had ever owned before. The largest share of it was 
given at once to her mother, then, after a serious discussion 
with Doctor Longshore, Anna decided to spend the remain- 
der on her first silk dress. Despite oratory and advanced 
views, the girl of eighteen was still human and feminine, and 
it is to be doubted whether any results of her labors ever gave 
her more satisfaction than that bit of finery for her pubhc 
appearances. 

And now the young orator went to Boston, where through 
Mr. Garrison's influence she was invited to speak in Theodore 
Parker's pulpit, as leading reformers were then doing. She 
also spoke in the Music Hall on "The National Crisis," and 
that lecture was the hardest trial she ever experienced. For 
two days before it she could not sleep or eat, and answered 
questions Hke one in a dream, and Mr. Garrison and those 
friends who had been confident of her abiHty to hold any 
audience began to feel extremely nervous. If she should 
make a failure now at the beginning of her career, it would 
be critical for her future. 

The night came, and with ill-concealed nervousness Anna 
put on the new silk dress, shook her heavy curls into place, 
and with resolute courage went to the hall, where, on 
mounting the platform, she noted the most tremendous 
audience she had ever before faced. Mr. Garrison opened 
the meeting by reading a chapter of the Bible, then he used 
up as much time as possible in remarks, in order to make the 
best of a bad situation, for he felt that she was not in a state 
of mind or body to hold the coldly critical audience before 
her. While he read and spoke poor Anna behind him waited 
to be presented, in an agony of nervousness which she strug- 
gled not to show. Then came the singing of the "Negro 
Boatman's Song of Whittier" by a quartet, accompanied 

288 



ANNA DICKINSON 

by the organ. At last, with an easy smile, which concealed 
his real feehngs, Mr. Garrison turned to introduce Anna, and 
she rose and walked forward to the front of the platform, 
looking more immature and girlish than ever before. Her 
first sentences were halting, disconnected, her fingers twined 
and twisted nervously around the handkerchief she held; 
then she saw a sympathetic upturned face in the front row 
of the audience staring up at her. Something in the face 
roused Anna to a determined effort. Throwing herself into 
her subject, she soon was pouring out a passionate appeal 
for a broader national life and action. Gone were fear and 
self-consciousness, gone all but determination to make her 
audience feel as she felt, believe as she believed, in the in- 
terest of humanity and the highest ideals. For over an hour 
she held that coldly critical mass of New England hearers as 
if by a magic spell, then the vast audience rose and gave vent 
to their emotion by the singing of "America," and then 
persons of distinction and wealth crowded around the speaker 
of the evening with thanks and praise. To one and all the 
young orator, whose eyes were still shining with enthusiasm, 
replied, simply: "I thank you. The subject is very near 
my heart," and as those who met her turned away they could 
not hide their amazement at the abihty of a young person 
who looked so immature in her girHsh beauty and freshness. 

This was the beginning of a period of success. She de- 
livered the Boston lecture in several other New England 
cities, and had many fine press notices on it, one of which 
closed with the following sentences: 

**Her whole appearance and manner were decidedly at- 
tractive, earnest, and expressive. Her lecture was well 
arranged, logical, and occasionally eloquent, persuasive, and 
pathetic." 

That was the time when every woman with a tender heart 
and a chance to show it for the benefit of the wounded sol- 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

diers served her apprenticeship in some hospital, and Anna 
was one of them. With keen sympathy she nursed and com- 
forted the sick men, who told her freely about their hard- 
ships and sufferings, as well as the motives which led them 
to go into the army, and she learned their opinion of war 
and of life on the battle-fields. From this experience she 
gained much priceless material which she later used most 
successfully. 

She was now beginning to be known as much for her youth 
and personal charm as for the subject-matter of her lectures, 
and to her unbounded joy in October, 1862, she received one 
hundred dollars and many flattering press notices for a 
speech given before the Boston Fraternity Lyceum. This 
success encouraged her to plan a series of lectures to be given 
in various parts of the East, especially in New England, 
from which she hoped to gain substantial results. But in 
making her plans she had failed to reckon with the humor 
of the people who under the stress of war had little interest 
even in the most thrilling lectures, and she traveled from 
place to place with such meager returns that she became 
perfectly disheartened, and, worse than that, she was almost 
penniless. 

When she had filled her last engagement of the series, for 
which she was to receive the large sum of ten dollars, at 
Concord, New Hampshire, she realized with a sinking heart 
that unless she could turn the tide of her affairs quickly she 
must again seek another occupation. The resolute girl was 
almost disheartened, and she confessed to a friend later: 

"No one knows how I felt and suffered that winter, pen- 
niless and alone, with a scanty wardrobe, suffering with cold, 
weariness, and disappointment. I wandered about on the 
trains day after day among strangers, seeking employment 
for an honest living and failing to find it. I would have gone 
home, but had not the means. I had borrowed money to 

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ANNA DICKINSON 

commence my journey, promising to remit soon; failing to do 
so, I could not ask again. Beyond my Concord meeting, all 
was darkness. I had no further plans.'* 

With positive want staring her in the face, in debt for the 
trip which she had taken on a venture, and shrinkingly sen- 
sitive in regard to her inability to aid her mother more 
lavishly, there was need of quick action. Alone in a board- 
ing-house room, Anna reviewed her resources and the mate- 
rial she had on hand for a new and more taking lecture. 

"I have it!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet, and taking 
up a pad and pencil she hastily began to write a lecture in 
which she used the material gained in her hospital experi- 
ence. She called it "Hospital Life." When she gave it on 
that night at Concord with a heavy heart it proved to be the 
pivot on which her success as a lecturer swung to its greatest 
height. As she drew her vivid pictures of the hospital 
experience and horrors of war and slavery she melted her 
audience to tears by her impassioned dehvery. The secre- 
tary of the New Hampshire Central Committee was in the 
audience and was enchanted as he heard the young speaker 
for the first time. At the close of the lecture he said to a 
friend : 

"If we can get this girl to make that speech all through 
New Hampshire, we can carry the Republican ticket in this 
State in the coming election." 

So impressed was he with Anna's powers of persuasion that 
he decided to invite her to become a campaign speaker on his 
own responsibility, if the State Committee did not think 
well of the idea. But that committee was only too glad to 
adopt any plan to aid their cause. Anna Dickinson, then 
only eighteen years old, was invited to become part of the 
State machinery, to work on the side which appealed to her 
sense of justice. Elated, excited, and enthusiastic, she ac- 
cepted the oflPer and began to speak early in March. What a 

20 291 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

v/ork that was for the young and inexperienced girl! In the 
month before election, twenty times she stood before great 
throngs of eager persons and spoke, rousing great enthusi- 
asm by her eloquent appeals in the name of reason and fair 
play. 

Slight, pretty, and without any of the tricks of the pro- 
fessional political speaker, her march through the State was a 
succession of triumphs which ended in a RepubHcan victory, 
and, though many of her enemies called her "ignorant and 
illogical" as well as "noisy" in mind and spirit, the adverse 
criticism was of no consequence in comparison to the praise 
and success which far outweighed it. 

The member in the first district, having no faith that a 
woman could influence politics, sent word to the secretary, 
"Don't send that woman down here to defeat my election." 

The secretary replied, "We have work enough for her to 
do in other districts without interfering with you!" 

When the honorable member saw the furore Anna was 
creating he changed his mind and begged the secretary to let 
her speak in his district. The secretary replied: "It is too 
late; the program is arranged. . , . You would not have 
her when you could, now you cannot have her when you 
will!" 

That district was lost by a large majority, while the others 
went strongly Republican, and it is interesting to note that 
when the good news reached headquarters the Governor- 
elect himself personally sent Anna thanks for her eloquent 
speeches, and to her amazement she was serenaded, feasted, 
and praised in a way that would have turned the head of a 
young woman who had been more interested in her own suc- 
cess than in victory for a cause for which she stood. But 
that and the money she could make and pass on to her 
mother were Anna's supreme objeats in whatever she under- 
took, and although she would have been less than human 

292 



ANNA DICKINSON 

if the praise and recognition had not pleased her, yet her 
real joy lay in the good-sized checks which she could now 
add to the family treasury. 

"Having done such good work in the New Hampshire 
election, her next field of endeavor was Connecticut, where 
the Republicans were completely disheartened, for nothing, 
they said, could prevent the Democrats from carrying the 
State. The issue was a vital one, and yet so discouraged 
were the Connecticut politicians that they were about to 
give up the fight without further effort, when it was decided 
to try having the successful young girl speaker see what she 
could do for them. Anna was only too delighted to accept 
the challenge, and at once started on a round of stump-speak- 
ing and speechmaking, with all the enthusiasm of her intense 
nature added to the inspiration of her recent success in a 
neighboring State. The results were almost miraculous. 
Two weeks of steady work not only turned the tide of popular 
feeling, but created a perfect frenzy of interest in the young 
orator. Even the Democrats, in spite of scurrilous attacks 
made on her by some of their leaders, received her every- 
where with the warmest welcome,^tore off their party badges, 
and replaced them by her picture, while giving wild applause 
to all she said. The halls where she spoke were so densely 
packed that the Republicans stayed away to make room for 
the Democrats, and the women were shut out to leave room 
for those who could vote." 

Well had her mother's struggle to make a fine woman of 
her turbulent daughter been repaid. Never was there such 
a furore over any orator in the history of this country. The 
critical time of her appearance, the excited condition of the 
people, her youth, beauty, and remarkable voice, all height- 
ened the effect of her genius. Her name was on every Up. 
Ministers preached about her, prayed for her as a second 
Joan of Arc raised up by God to save their State for the 

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TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

loyal party, and through it the nation to freedom and hu- 
manity. And through all the excitement and furore the 
youthful heroine moved with calm poise and a firm deter- 
mination toward her goal, attempting to speak clearly and 
truthfully in regard to what were her sacred beliefs. 

Election Day was at hand, and missionary work must not 
slacken even for one moment. On the Saturday night be- 
fore the fateful day Anna spoke before an audience of over 
one thousand of the working-men of Hartford, Connecticut. 
This was the last effort of the campaign, and it was a remark- 
able tribute to a young woman's powers that the com- 
mittee of men were wiUing to rest their case on her efforts. 
A newspaper account of the meeting said: 

*'Allyn Hall was packed as it never was before. The 
aisles were full of men who stood patiently for more than 
three hours; the window-sills had their occupants, every 
foot of standing room was taken, and in the rear of the gal- 
leries men seemed to hang in swarms Hke bees. Such was 
the view from the stage. ... To such an audience Miss 
Dickinson spoke for two hours and twenty minutes, and 
hardly a hstener left the hall during that time. Her power 
over the audience was marvelous. She seemed to have that 
absolute mastery of it which Joan of Arc is reported to have 
had over the French troops. They followed her with that 
deep attention which is unwiHing to lose a word, but greeted 
her, every few moments, with the most wild applause. . . . 
The speech in itself and its effect was magnificent — this 
strong adjective is the proper one. . . . The work of the 
campaign is done. It only remains in the name, we are sure, 
of all loyal men in this district to express to Miss Dickinson 
heartfelt thanks for her splendid, inspiring aid. She has 
aroused everywhere respect, enthusiasm and devotion, let 
us not say to herself alone, but to the country; while such 
women are possible in the United States, there isn't a spot 

294 



ANNA DICKINSON 

big enough for her to stand on that won't be fought for so 
long as there is a man left." 

Even that achievement was not the height of the young 
orator's attainment. Her next ovation was at Cooper 
Institute in New York City, where she spoke in May of the 
same year. Faded newspaper accounts of that meeting 
fill us with amazement that such a triumph could be, with 
only a girl's indomitable will, an insufficient education and 
much reading of books back of it. 

"Long before the appointed hour for the lecture the hall 
was crowded. The people outside were determined to get 
in at all hazards, ushers were beaten down, those with tickets 
rushed in, and those without tickets were pushed aside, while 
thousands went home unable to get standing room even in 
the lobbies and outer halls. 

" On the platform sat some of the most distinguished men 
of the day: clergymen, lawyers, generals, admirals, leaders 
of the fashionable set — all eager to do homage to the simple 
girl of whom the press said: 

"*She is medium in height, slight in form, graceful in 
movement, her head, well poised, adorned with heavy dark 
hair, displaying to advantage a pleasant face which has all 
the signs of nervous force and of vigorous mental Hfe. In 
manner she is unembarrassed, without a shade of boldness; 
her gestures are simple, her voice is of wonderful power, 
penetrating rather than loud, as clear as the tone of metal, 
and yet with a reed-like softness. Her vocabulary is simple* 
and in no instance has there been seen a straining after 
effective expressions; yet her skill in using ordinary lan- 
guage is so great that with a single phrase she presents a 
picture and delivers a poem in a sentence.' " 

At the close of the meeting, which had been opened by 
Henry Ward Beecher, he rose and said, with real emotion, 
"Let no man open his lips here to-night; music is the only 

295 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

fitting accompaniment to the eloquent utterances we have 
heard." Then the famous Hutchinson family sang and 
closed the meeting with the John Brown song, in which the 
vast audience joined with thrilling eflFect, 

From that Cooper Institute meeting Anna received al- 
most one thousand dollars, an incredible amount for a 
simple speech to her unmercenary spirit, but one which 
was to be duplicated many times before her career was 
over. 

After that meeting in New York her reputation as a public 
speaker was estabhshed, despite the carping critics, and she 
continued to win fresh laurels, not only for herself, but for 
vital issues. When doing more campaigning in Pennsyl- 
vania she had to travel through the mining districts, where 
her frank words were often ridiculed and she was pelted 
with stones, rotten eggs, and other unpleasant missiles. 
But she bore it all Hke a warrior, and made a remarkable 
record for speeches in parts of the State where no man 
dared to go. Despite this and the fact that the vic- 
torious party owed its success largely to the young orator, 
the committee never paid her one cent for her services — 
to their great discredit, probably having spent all their 
campaign funds in some other less legitimate way and 
thinking they could more easily defraud a girl than a more 
shrewd man. 

Nothing daunted, she continued to speak wherever she 
could get a hearing, and at last came an invitation to make 
an address in Washington, D. C. Here indeed was a tri- 
umph! She hesitated long before accepting the invitation, 
for it would be a trying ordeal, as among her audience would 
be the President and many diplomats and high government 
officials. But with sturdy courage she accepted, and as a 
result faced, as she later said, the most brilliant audience 
ever assembled to hear her speak. It was a unique sensa- 

296 



ANNA DICKINSON 

tion for the dignitaries and men of mark to sit as listeners at 
the feet of this slender girl, who was speaking on profound 
questions of the day; but she made a deep impression, even 
on those who did not agree with her opinions, and it was a 
proud moment of her Hfe when at the close of the meeting she 
met the President and his Cabinet. The Chief Executive 
gladly granted her an interview for the following day, 
and like other men of lesser rank, was carried out of himself 
as he watched the play of expression, the light and shade on 
her mobile face, as they talked together of the vital topics 
of the day. 

Anna Dickinson was now an orator beyond a doubt; in 
fact, the only girl orator the country had ever known. More 
than that, she made use of her eloquence, her magnetism, 
her flow of language, not for any minor use, but in present- 
ing to the pubhc the great problems of her day and in plead- 
ing for honor and justice, freedom and fullness of joy for the 
individual, with such intensity of purpose as few men have 
ever used in pleading a cause. 

That she wrote and acted in a play dealing with one of the 
subjects nearest her heart, and that she published a novel of 
the same kind, added nothing to her fame. She was wholly 
an orator with an instinctive knowledge of the way to play 
on the emotions of her listeners. Her faults were the faults 
of an intense nature too early obliged to grapple with hard 
problems; her virtues were those of a strong, independent, 
unselfish nature. It has been said that she rose to fame on 
the crest of three waves: the negro wave, the war wave, and 
the woman wave. If that is so, then was her success as a 
public speaker something of which to be proud, for to have 
spoken on such subjects surely betokens a great nature. 
Anna Dickinson has been called the "Joan of Arc" of her day 
and country. If she had not the delicate spiritual vision of 
the Maid of France, she had her superb courage in reaching 

297 



TEN AMERICAN GIRLS FROM HISTORY 

up toward an ideal. What she was and what she accom- 
plished as an American girl, who was an orator at eighteen, 
gives an incentive and a new enthusiasm to young Americans 
of the twentieth century, for what girls have done girls can 
do, and we believe, with that greatest of poets, that "the 
best is yet to be." 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

The writer of this book gratefully acknowledges her indebted- 
ness for valuable material gleaned from many sources. Espe- 
cially does she tender appreciative thanks to the authors of the 
following works : 

S. G. Drake; Book of the Indians of North America. 

John Esten Cooke; My Lady Pocahontas, 

Woodrow Wilson; History of the American People. 

Mrs. Eliz. (Eggleston) Seelye; Pocahontas. 

Smith, Elmer Boyd; Story of Pocahontas y Capt. Smith. 

Mabie, H. W.; Heroines Every Child Should Know. 

Holland, R. S.; Historic Girlhoods. 

Woodbury, E. C. D. Q.; Dorothy Quincy, Wife of John Hancock- 

Sears, Lorenzo; John Hancock, the Picturesque Patriot. 

National Cyclopcedia of American Biography. 

Raum; History of New Jersey. 

Stockton, Frank; Stories of New Jersey. 

McGeorge, J. C; "A N.J. Heroine of the Revolution" {Am. 
Monthly Magazine). 

Beymer, W. G. ; On Hazardous Service. 

James, George Wharton; Heroines of California. 

Houten, E. L. ; The Donner Party. 

Murphy, Virginia Reed; "Across the Plains in the Donner 
Party." (Cent. Mag., 1891.) 

Ellet, E. E.; Pioneer Women of the West. 

EUet, E. E. ; Women of the American Revolution. 
299 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Parton, James; Eminent Women of the Age. 

Barton, Clara; Story of the Red Cross. 

Epler, P. H.; Life of Clara Barton. 

Bonselle & De Forest; Little Women Letters from the Home of 

Alcott. 
Cheney; Life and Letters of Louisa Alcott. 
Morris, Clara; Life on the Stage. 
Outlook, Outing, Century, Munsey, Hist. Mag., Etc. 
Christian; History of Richmond. 
Anonymous; Famous Prison Escapes. 
Anonymous; Richmond Prisons. 
McMasters; Primary History of United States. 
Memorial to Clara Barton. 



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